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Full text of "Myrtle leaves : a miscellaneous collection of poems"


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MYRTLE LEAVES,. 



A MISCELLANEOUS 




"> 

A 



OLLECTION OF 




ITIO 



BY 



MA\' MYRTLE, 'r^ 

(MRS. GEO. E. DUGAN.) 

SEDALIA. MO, 



j'lcifor she Critic, nor the Scholar Ciassical, tmifor tke 'Peofie, 
ii this Voi^'.me fziblished. 



"Z^^S 



SEUALLV. MU ; 

DEMOCRAT CO., STEAM PKIMIXG HOU:*£. 

1885. 



6«^ 



DEDICATION 



TO THOSE DEAR FRIENDS WHOSE 

GEXEROIS COMMENDATIONS 

AND 

KIND CRITICISM HAS BEEN MY BEST INSPIRATION, 

THIS VOLUME IS EOVINGLY AND 

f 

GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 
BY THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE 



This little vessel, freighted with rude rythm. does 
not start out from port with gaily fluttering sails, ex- 
pecting to cruise far^ away to distant lands, but timidly 
she hugs the shore, fearing the deep waters, and con- 
tent to be hailed by a few loving hearts, as she goes 
on her limited journey. The critics may lie in wait, 
like sharks, where the white-capped waves roll, but 
this small craft will never sail far enough away from 
home to be destroyed b}- them. One author says 
boldly: "Every book is its own excuse for existence. 
and needs no apology for its publication.'' I say not 
so of this venture, but prayerfully send the volume on 
its way, hoping that some one may find in it a line 
to commend, if there be many to censure. 

Go, little leaflets, from the vale of song I 

Bear tender message to some troubled heart. 
Speak for the right, and feprove the wrong. 

And to some saddened soul new^ hopes impart. 
Though great, white blossoms wave above thee high. 

Thy mission lowly is thy mission yet; 
Go bravely, then, a'^nd hush some lonely sigh; 

Go without fear, and without vain regret. 



INDEX. 



F'AfiK 

Missouri n 

Maybelle 14 

Earl Latie 15 

An Answer Ui 

A Wreck 17 

A Good Man is 

Patience H) 

Lee Sinclair I'u 

Va.slui L'l 

Kate -J-.'j^ 

Love is Best j i 

(Tcraudniotlier's Dream .... I'O 

De Profundis -JT 

TrvstinL;- l'S 

iJerel't l".) 

Only This -jO 

Sundered -Ui 

If You Should Die 31 

The Last Call 3-.> 

The Bells of '76 33 

Margery Cross 34 

The Old Gate 35 

Temptation 37 

Struggle L^pward 37 

Coquetting 38 

The Suicide 39 

To Grandma Kullmer. . . . 40 

A Little While 41 

Voices 41 

The Dead Hero 4-J 

Two Pictures 43 

My Pastor's Wife. -id 

Two Little tiirls 40 

ToM. MvrtlcS 47 

Homesick 48 

T>i<^se Davs 4P 



PAGE 

Thoughts .'lO 

Baby Myra .i 1 

After Many Years 52 

Rest 53 

Forgiven 54 

(xold or Dross ."),") 

A Perfect Day .",0 

Tiibute 57 

Baby's Grave 5s 

ILippy New Year 59 

As Y'e Sow (j(i 

Thy Future (il 

A Miracle Oi' 

Regret t;:; 

A >Voma)i"N Mistake 64 

Gone . (>5 

Good-Bye (jti 

A Change (57 

Hugo Dead 68 

Pearls in the Sea on 

To Miss G.J 70 

May 7A 

Victor Hugo 71 

Farewell "2 

Not Well 7S 

A Bouquet 74 

Ghosts 75 

John Janson's Way 76 

Von Weber 80 

Five Years SI 

Tragedy S'2 

A Threnody S3 

A Rebuke S4 

A Lesson 85 

Thanksgiving s!^ 

Queis S^ 



Myrtle Leavt's. 



\ II 



I- AUi: 

Someday ^'0 

A l*oi-tr:iit. 

To Mrs. Y. S. .Mc(i.. . UO 

Sympathy ^'1 

\Vhio}i? 9i> 

After the Shower 93 

Music :.. 94 

The Old Story 95 

Be IJrave, Firm and True. 95 

As the ])ird^ Siiii;: 9(; 

l^ines, 

To Mr. and Mrs. II. V. 

Field 97 

Memory 9S 

Her Prodigal 99 

I'artiiiu- 10" 

,Mary and Martlia K'l 

Ingratitude 10-2 

Mobbed 104 

Indian Summer , 10b 

Sweet Voiees 107 

Her Sin lOs 

LTnder the Shade of the 

Trees 109 

Over, Over .. 1 10 

Annabel Grey Ill 

Vou and I 11-2 

My Darling li;! 

Our Pastor 114 

Unreqtiited liove 116 

(")ne Critic 117 

A Woman's Story 1 1^< 

My Ship Went Down 12o 

Philo.sophy 121 

Fragments 122 

My Friends 124 

Baby is Sick 12.") 

Will Power 120 

Dead 127 



l-Alih 

Too r.ate I2s 

Dead Sea Fruit 129 

III Memory 1 ;i 1 

A Singer (Jone I :; 1 

A Love Song i;i2 

Hope i:;2 

The Bitter Speech l;',:{ 

To a Caviler 1 o4 

Gratitu<le l:;.'i 

A l.over l:>(i 

Marah 1 ;u; 

Growing Old i:>7 

Had I Wings I.JS 

Suspended 1 an 

Then and Now 1 40 

Only Sleeping 142 

Her All . . . .^ 14;; 

Saved by Gi-ace 144 

Despair 145 

Weary 14.") 

Words and Deeds 14fj 

White Sails 147 

July 4th, 1SS5 14S 

Deceit 149 

She Loved Him 149 

Lines. 

In Memory of P. P. 

Bliss 15(» 

The Singer 150 

For You 151 

To Mrs. M. H. W 152 

A Picture 15:j 

Something Cheerful 154 

A Broken Shell 1 55 

To My Daughter 1 5M 

In ^Vlemoriajn, 

Dedicated to Mrs. S. 

J. Sturdevant 157 

After Twentv Years 158 



\'iii Myrtle Leaves. 



J'AGF. PAGE 

Disquit'l ]00 Woman's Asj)iratioiis 178 



^P 



Ti ust ICO 111 Memory 

The I'ityini;- Angel IGl Of Leroy G. Mills 179 

Tiiy Will ]]e Done lOi' Winter ISO 

To layH 1 03 Tiie Two Grandmothers. .. ISl 

LTnreeoncilei] 10:5 | Througli Pain 182 

Offended 104 | September 183 

Uncle Damon ! 05 (Greeting 183 

At Rest lOo The Ides of March 184 

'I'll e Reason 100 Only a Dream 185 

Sundered 107 A Ghost Story 188 

Answer to a Letter 108 Resignation 189 



'o 



Memorial 100 | Tempted 190 

Questions 170 Fancies 191 

A Grave 170 } Under the Linden 192 

Then 171 Re Still 193 

A Passing Thought 172 Only a Little Coflin 19:5 

Forever 172 A Monologue 194 

The Baby ShoAV l73 John and I. 195 

A Memory l74 ! As at First 190 

The Undercnrient 175 Lines 

Beyond 175 To Mrs. S. F. R 197 

Worlc and Rest 170 I'ennsylvania 198 

The Shadowed Way 177 Contrast 199 

Is It True? 177 Ad Finem 200 



A/issoiiri. g 

Missouri. 

" Sahes popuU snprenia est lex^ 

[Delivered before the Missouri I'ress Association at its Seventh Annual Meeting 
at Carthage, Mu., May 8tli, 1883 ] 

^jN infant in the Nation's arms 
'In 'twenty-four Missouri lay, 
With few to recognize her charms. 

The babe is fair — few thought to say. 
Neglected, still the infant grew. 

And 'ere the nation was aware, 
She was a maiden sweet to view, 
And many said. The maid is fair. 

Then strong men sought her sunny smile, 

And made them homes upon her soil ; 
Her brave young heart was free from guile, 

And kindl}' welcomed all who toil. 
From South, and North, and East men came, 

And crowned the maid Queen of the West, 
They joined their fortunes with her name — 

Of all the world they loved her best. 

A simple race of pioneers. 

Tired of shams, longing to be free ! 
They came and settled. Ah ! the years, 

How swift they pass ; and destiny. 
How strange it runs ! It is not long 

Since tirst Missouri smiled on men 
Of Saxon race, nor thought it wrong 

To welcome those who wield the pen. 

As time rolled on the maid was wed 
To Progress, one whom she loved well. 

The swift years sped with steady tread. 
And new friends came their love to tell. 

Then children fair were born to her — 

Brave sons, and daughters — her's to claim. 



Of this small band none did demur 
Or think it ill to bear her name. 



lo ]\[issoiiri. 



They wore her motlo on their shield ; 

They loved her honor, and her fame ; 
They fought for her on tented field, 

That none mio;ht iustlv trive her blame— 
Her children have been brave, and strong, 

And famous in their dav and time, 
Out in the wide world's busy throng. 

And in the pleasant field of rhyme. 



One son for years in Senate stood. 

Presiding o'er the slow debate. 
Giving counsel wise — and good — 

An honor to his native State. 
There is a story, little more 

Than legendary, which does say, 
That he the highest otiice bore 

The Nation gives, for one brief day 



He did not claim the honor then. 

We do not ask it for him now. 
He lives, and is king of men, 

Without this crown above his brow. 
Still there are heroes on her soil, 

Brave as was Brutus, grand, of old 
Noble men, who think and toil 

For something: better than mere gold. 



How long since one refused to say 

Two words — which would a fortune clear.? 
Should not he wear a crown of bay? 

How many yield him homage here? 
When drifting years have washed our eyes, 

Then shall we see this act shine bright, 
Then shall we know that sacrifice 

Is alwavs grand, in human sight. 



J//SS 



oun. I J 



O, could I to this hero give 

One tiny leaf of fadeless bloom, 
Which in a coronet might live, 

To brighten something of earth's ©"loom. 
With reverence it should be given 

As something sacred, set apart. 
Belonging less to earth than heaven. 

Like deeds of love from Christian heart. 



I think sometimes a shudder thrills 

With sorrow our Missouri's breast. 
Since now but earth and rubbish tills 

The grave where Daniel Boone should rest. 
That rifled grave should be our shame. 

Since there it lies with weeds overgrown. 
And not a shaft to bear his name. 

Or show that here was his loved home 



But now I pass, to note how fast — 

As if by magic — all the lands 
Are being taken — first, and last. 

Her acres go, like ocean sands. 
We know our State is not outshone, 

In beautv, bv a sin^-le one 
Of all the States, not ojie alone, 

From shores of Maine to Oregon. 



Her cities stand serene on hills, 

Or lie embowered in the vales ; 
Her rivers are not swollen rills ; 

Hemp, wheat, and corn, and cotton bales. 
Go floating o'er Missouri's tide 

Like drift before a rising flood. 
Tossed -lightly, still they safely ride 

To the best harbor, sound and good. 



12 Missouri. 



Her railroads like thick net-work lie. 

Across the prairies, mountains, dales, 
The}^ gleam beneath the azure sky 

Like ripples, where a huge fleet sails. 
Rich stores of wealth, large yields of grain. 

Great trains of iron, and coal, and lead, 
Fly swiftly on through dell, o'er plain. 

To market, safe, and quickly sped. 



Though not a centur}- has passed 

Since her first settlement was made. 
Her schools can not be much surpassed — 

Complete are they, in every grade. 
Thus education — mighty power ! 

Without which any state would fall, 
She fosters with a handsome dower. 

Which gives good schools, and free to all. 



Her press! — ah, here, my courage fails; 

Shall I dare touch a theme so grand? 
Who near the shore but watch the sails 

Of boats which visit every land? 
Her writers stand sublime and strong — 

\ irallant army, loval, true; 
Firm for the right, they battle wrong 

In solid Phalanx — oray and blue. 



No matter what the discords were ; 

iSlissouri's sons who wield the pen 
Are brothers now, and honor her 

Who bids them vanquish evil men. 
'Tis true, thev sometimes disagree. 

As brothers will, of every band ; 
But scorn Missouri, and then sec 

Them arm in arm, and hand in hand. 



J//ssoi/r/. 1 7 



To hg-ht her battles to the death. 

With earnest stroke of trenchant pen. 
With heaving breast and bated breath — 

You kno7V that they are brothers then. 
Foro^ive my boldness: all unsought 

This honor came, and so I prav 
You will accept, with kindly thought, 

The little o-ift I brins^ to-'dav. 



The old States lauoh, and waji their heads ; 

Missouri scorns their sillv mirth ; 
She stands majestic, while, half dead, 

Thev count their o-old, and huo- their hearth. 
A matron, handsome, proud and wise, 

Missouri stands, with placid brow. 
And o-ives rich o-ifts of every cruise. 

Her land is full of treasure now. 



A noble Benton, Bates and Blair, 

Have been among her gifted ones. 
\\ hose glor}- she may always share, 

Her own, and her adopted sons. 
The wreath from Bishop ^Marvin's brow 

Lies waiting for another hand : 
Ah I there are honors plenty now — 

High places for her sons to stand. 



And they are comino- to the fray. 

An earnest voice, in ringing tones. 
Is heard in Senate halls to-day. 

For our Missouri and her homes. 
Then let us honor this great State. 

And prove her noblest, grandest, best : 
Let not her throne be desolate — 

LouiT may she reiixn. Queen of the West! 



J4 Maybelh. 

May belle. 



^miET mc come — in my rau^s — to your gate Maybelle, 
-^ Let me speak 'ere my tongue grows thick with wine, 
Let me talk — for oh ! there is mucii to tell 
Of that sacred, far away, olden-time. 

When we stood there by the river's brink. 



-^ • 



? 



Your shining hair 'gainst my breast Maybelle 
When we pledged sweet troth — I did not think 
You could e'er forget, love's holy spell. 

Yes; "men shquld be strong" — I grant jNLaybelle, 
But the strongest hearts know the truest leal. 

And they who forget their vows iSIaybelle, 
Have hearts like flint, or polished steel. 

I have kissed your lips — don't shrink jNIavbelle. 

iNI}' kiss was purer then than thine. 
For 'twas true, but thine was false, Maybelle, 

An lies leave a darker stain than wine. 

Now oft, in the revel the maddest soul, 
I curse the hand of Fate, Maybelle, 

And quaff — to its dregs — the foaming bowl. 
And strive for a heart all hate, Mavbelle. 

But through these scenes, that past, Mavbelle, 

Burns like a lire within my brain. 
And my tortured heart will throb and swell 

'Neath an awful weight of dismal pain. 

I am n(.)body now ; vou are rich and great. 
Prospered, and honored, and loved, Maybelle, 

Proud, you reign in vour high estate. 
Sorrow is seldom v(nir guest, Mavbelle. 



Earl Lane. I§ 

I am an outcast, oft wanting bread, 

I haunt the places of sin. jNIaybelle, 
My rest at night, the street, or a shed, 

Where I dream of the ''might have been" — May- 
belle. 

I can not hate you, go back to 3'our home, 
I feel the strength of the wine, Maybelle, 

And will seek a spot 'neaih the clouds, alone, 
And dream of that olden time, Mavbelle. 



Earl Lane. 

^O back to your tomb ! you are dead. Earl Lane, 
And your grave is sodden with tears, and cold. 
Now it matters not if in shine, and rain. 
Your only couch is the matted wold. 

T'ou kno7u why I left your side, Earl Lane ! 

Now let tlie past, with its horrors go, 
And seek — if you will — those haunts again 

With their hidden mines of crime and woe. 

Oh ! had you lived, and been true. Earl Lane, 
I should, this night, be your loving bride, 

All the wealth I craved, w^as to wear vour name. 
But you were false, alas ! and died. 

Now I am a bride, you a ghost, Earl Lane, 

Oh ! Why did you come from your tomb of sin, 

To tear my heart with that past again? 

And 2:rieve me with the " miirht have been?'' 

Good bye, for ever and ever. Earl Lane, 

Present a nd future are yours — 'tis true — ■ 
But put our past in its grave again. 

You are dead to me ; I am nought to you. 



1 6 A 7? Aiis7uer. 

An Answer. 



^\f'OU ask me what I most regret, 
^ Of all my life that's o'er; 
My life so near the chill sunset. 
So near the m3stic door. 

Your question brings the saddest tears, 

My e}'es have ever shed ; 
And all the w^eight of mis-spent years 

It lays upon m}- head. 

x\nd ever}- bitter word I'\e said 
To give some heart a pain, 

Comes like the ghost of anguish dead, 
To vex m}' soul again. 

And then I grieve that in the past 

One dart was ever sent, 
Or any careless shadow^s cast 

To mar a heart's content. 



For da3-s speed b}-, and moments go 

Like insects in the sun. 
Like Autumn leaves, both friends, and foe, 

Are falling, one by one. 



And so we seem to war with death, 
Who strive in anger here, 

There floats away, a transient breath, 
And we are full of fear. 



Just now ni}- heart sincere believes. 

Of all its weary past 
It most regrets, most surely grieves, 

O'er shadows it has cast. 



A Wreck. ly 

A Wreck. 

f'^HE glanced at the ring on her small white hand ; 
Then her gaze wandered out to the sea, 
Where a storm-torn ship was lashed to the strand, 
And she thouirht of her lost Willie Lee. 

She saw the white sails of a \essel rise up, 

Small tiecks on the blue of the sky ; 
She wonderingly gazed, as it neared the port. 

Forgetting the man who stood by. 

Forgetting her promise to walk by his side, 

The wearisome journe}- of 3'ears ; 
Foro^ettinij to-morrow would greet her a bride. 

And almost forgetting her fears. 

A sigh crept up — touched her lips — sped away ; 

While the tears slowly dropped on her heart, 
As out of the window the last lingering ray 

Of sunshine, did slowl}- depart. 

It touched her pale cheek, kissed her eyes, and her hair. 

As if tenderly saying "' good bye." 
It ne'er touched the wooer, who lingered there. 

Growing sad, he could not tell why. 

Mark ! a step on the stair, a passionate tone 

''Oh I Nellie, my darling, Tve come 
Safe home from the waves ; dear Nellie ; still mine ? 

My heart is as ever, all thine." 

The wooer, forgotten, looked o'er the sea, 
— The wreck madly rocked near the strand ; 

"Like thee, my life, torn and tattered, like thee; 
Hopeless, am I wrecked on the sand."" 

The morrow was fair, leaves danced in the breeze. 
Birds sang, tiowers bloomed gay and bright. 

Two hearts beat as one, 'neath blossoming trees, 
The wreck had quite \-anished from sight. 



1 8 A Good Man. 

A Good Man. 

[Written in Memory of CJeneral Ceo. 11. Snii[li. the founder of Sedara, and the 
Kood friend to all who were poor or in aflliction.l 

PI MAN, in all things brave, and good, 
Strong in the might of manhood's worth ; 
Among the ranks of men he stood. 
As true a man as walked the earth. 

Proud of his honor, and his name, 

He never stooped to lowdy act. 
He sought not praise, and feared not blame, 

His life from blame was vet intact. 

Whate'er was right, and just, and true ; 

This did he, frown who might, or would ; 
He gave to ever}- mnn his due. 

And this by all was understood. 

No cringing spirit ever found, 

A lodging in his noble heart; 
And yet, he gave no careless wound. 

To cause the bitter tear to start. 

Ah ! gentle was he as a child. 

When wrongs did not disturb his breast. 

And like a tender woman — mild, 
When his strong spirit was at rest. 

When roused bv a dishonest deed 

A very lion then was he ; 
In foremost rank he took the lead 

In everv tiirht for honesty. 

Above most men he towered, tall 

Like a giant oak, and broad ; 
He scorned all actions mean and small. 

Nor cared who might, or did. applaud. 



• Patience. ig 

He left bcliind liim monument 

Of gracious deeds in human hearts ; 

He seemed a very angel sent. 
To still the pain despair imparts. 

When good men die, the people weep ; 

Sedalia lost this noble friend ; 
And wept, when calm he lay asleep, 

And cries could not his large heart rend. 

They placed him in a lonely grave. 
And planted tiowers o'er his head ; 

There with the gentle, and the brave. 
Pie rests, amon^ the honored dead. 

No one has tilled his place, as yet. 

Perhaps no mortal ever will. 
The poor his kindness will forget 

Only when their hearts are still. 

And now I bring this simple song. 
Slight tribute to his manly worth ; 

I think he never did a wrong, 

(A studied wrong) to one on earth. 

Good men, alas! thev are so rare, 
A tribute may be paid their name. 

When they are silent, resting where 

No breath can reach, of" praise, or blame. 



Pati 



ence. 



^E still, my heart, with patience wait, 
P) The morn must dawn — it may be late — 
But sunshine sweet must gild the sky, 
And clouds and shadows all pass by. 

Be still, (^h, heart, and hide 3'our pain. 

The Spring will bring bright flowers again ; 

And fresher, sweeter will thev be. 

When darkness and the shadows flee. 



20 Lee Sinclair. • 

Lee Sinclair. 

l^jNE winter, long ago, so long I don't remember, 
^-^ Whether rain, or snowfall, made bleak the chill 

December. 
I mind that darling Leah, the onl}- child e'er given, 
To bless or curse our lives, was ten 3'ears old and seven. 

Bright, sunn}- seventeen ! lithe as a bending willow, 
I'd kissed her ros}' cheek each night upon its pillow. 
And thought how more than fair, the child had grown — 

'^a lady"— 
I would not ha\'e it so, she was to me m^- baby. 

One morn I went to call my birdling from her slumber — 
'Twas Christmas morn I mind — though ^-ears ^^•e 

ceased to number — 
I live to tell }ou Lee, my babv had forsaken. 
Her father, mother, home, and ways of sin had taken. 

I woke as from a dream — the}- thought the blow had 

killed me — 
Yes, woke, but not the same, for bitter thoughts quite 

filled me, 
I vowed before them all, that I would ne'er forgive her. 
And said with thrill of \ow that I should long outlive her. 

Three months had dra^-o'ed their length, her father 
could not bear it. 

But left me. with m}- woe, he had not strength to bear it ; 

And thus all left alone with hea\'y weight of sorrow, 

I smothered every groan, and watched for each to- 
morrow. 

One nio-ht, a low faint crv, a babv's \'oice in wailino;. 
I oped the casement wide, and there, beside the railing, 
A tiny basket lav — a child close wrapped within it. 
Which sobbed in such a wa\-, I feared "t would die each 
minute. 



Vashfi . 21 

That babe, dear Lee, was you, to me a Heaven-sent 
treasure. 

Her child, quite well I knew, and that gave me dis- 
pleasure. 

So I've not been as kind, at all times, as a mother — 

Yet you, poor outcast one, have never known another. 

What! Ruth, 3'ou here to-night? your place is in the 

basement. 
How could I see her there, half hidden by the casement; 
'Tis true she's faithful been, and long and kindly 

ser\ed me. 
And she has heard this tale — my dear, it quite unnerves 

me. 

"•'Mother!" did she say? oh, God, it is my baby; 
Toiling these long 3-ears, her heart half "broken, maybe, 
Ruth ! Leah ! daughter mine, O let these arms enfold 

you. 
My eyes so dim, and old, grow brighter to behold you. 

My child! can this be true? Here, kneel close down 

beside me. 
And read the paper through, nor stop to justly chide me, 
Married, true, and fair, the one we had forbidden. 
My grandchild, Lee Sinclair, your birthright's no more 

hidden. 



Vashti. 



|N Shushan gardens all was gay and bright; 
^^ The royal wine, from golden goblets flowed. 
And when had passed in revel, the sixth night, 

The King had journeyed far on Bacchus' road. 
Queen Vashti in the the King's house proudly stood 

And honor paid to Mede and Persian guest. 
Majestic in her noble womanhood. 

Of all the land the fairest and the best. 



22 \ 'ashii. 



The Kinix, all flushed with wine, then boasted loud 

Of \^ishti's beauty. And uinviscK- cried 
To all that leering- Orential crowd : 

"'The (^ueen I'll have before you in her pride. 
Go briniT the C^ueen." a drunken Kinir's command — 

"•That I may show her perfect beauty here.'* 
Mehumen, in mute protest, raised a hand. 

And said — "she will not come, C) Kin^i", 1 fear." 



Proud N'ashti, Queen ot man\- pnninces ; 

The future ages then appealed to thee : 
""Shall wt)men be slaves to a beastly whim? 

Or, with thou, ]Mxne their rcn'al majestN?" 
The chamberlains were loudly knocking at her door. 

The King coidd spare them all. sa\"e this brave one. 
And \'ashti prayed as ne\"er pra\"ed a queen before : 

"Let not this mad Kin^x's miixht\" will "be tlone."' 



She bowed, but calmly said, "I cannot go; 

The Kiuii is not himself as all may see, 
Isiy honor shall not thus be trampled, no : 

More dear than crown, or life, it is to me." 
They tore from off her brow the golden band, 

lier high estate was ti^ another given. 
And \'ashti — noble Queen of all the land — 

Was into sudden, lonely, exile dri\en. 



Onnvned in the flooding of the mighty years. 

We know not how her hours of life were passed. 
But think she did not shed repining tears. 

And kno-iv her courage never was surpassed. 
We bless thy memory, thou exalted one. 

That deed of daring sweeps the ages dcnvn. 
Thy sacritice a jj^lorious Nicton" won. 

Brighter, more precious than a paltry crown. 



. iliC. 



Kate. 

H, sec her, standing desolate, 
,^^ With shadow^s on her gold-brown hair; 
Bearing the stings and scoffs of fate 
Without one moaning word of pra\-er. 

Queenly, and proud, her hazel e}-es 
Glow with the light of truth within ; 

Facing the world in grieved surprise — 
A world of envy, hate, and sin. 

The world which stoops to think her base ; 

Which stones her for another's crime ; 
She meets its sneers, a3'e — face to face, 

Conscious of right, she bides her time. 

Held up to scorn, mocked, wounded, still 
Her soul will never bow, or (|uail ; 

They cannot crush her might}- will, 
Nor see her shiink when foes assail. 

I often wonder — if somewhere, 
Beyond the ken of earthly lore, 

There is a place where silent pra^•er 
Is heeded, when our hearts ache sore. 

And then, 1 wonder if there be, 

A place where women's wrongs are known 
Where judge with justice shall agree. 

To heed her cause for right alone. 

If, face to face with lying foes. 

She may not in Ciod's presence stand, 

Where each must reap that which he sows — 
And see them smote b}- Truth's right hand. 

If ever such a time shall be. 

This woman's hazel eyes will glow, 

As with majestic dignit}'. 

She points out each malignant foe. 



23 



2-}. Love is /h's/. 

Love IS Best. 



HEAR just now the sweetest songs: 
Listen, niv lo\e, do ytni not hoar? 
'Pliis nuisie to the past belongs. 

And \ei its eadenee seems so near. 

\^^^ you remember \\ heie \\e stood, 

r>\ that bright stream, [o wateh the moon 

Rise o'er the dark rim i^t" the wood. 

While low \ou sung that pU\inti\e tune? 

More s\\eetl\- sweet than any song. 

My heart has feU sinee that dear hour, 

Tliouiih. time in nassini*" swift along 
lias won me oft bv musie's power. 

"A bo\- and girl," the sages said. 

Who Umg had passed their youths glad day 
" Time must brinL-- wisdom to the head," 

Thex- thtnight, and put the theme away. 

\\\" wcMv un\\ise, in all sa\ e lo\e. 

And now that years have brought their lore. 
Our tlunights turn like the earrier do\e. 

To seek their haj>p\ tixst onee more. 

We elose our e\es, and see the moon. 
Rise bright abo\e the forest's rim. 

We elose our ears and hear that tuiie 
More beautiful than matin hymn. 

And si\ 1 think of all life's lore, 
{">[ all earth's wisdom, /oz'C is best, 

b\>r ah, we t.on lo\es pages t^'er 
When we'\e forgotten :dl the rest. 



Gri7Jf(///io///ir\< Dream. 

Graiulniothcr's Dream. 

ff SAT within the open door. 
My irrandchild on mv knee. 
And wondered, what were spirit lore, 
Or spirit hfe tor nie. 

I said, my Hie — as we of earth 
Know human Hfe to be — 

Will soon be o'er, and fain would 1 
A glimpse of soul-life see. 

1 saw a bird, with azure wings. 
And breast as white as snow ; 

I saw the glorious western sk\-. 
In sunset's ruddv glow. 

And then there seemed to rise a wall 
With burnished gates of gold. 

And, at its base, a sapphire sea 
Plashed lightly ow the wold. 

And on that sea an emerald boat. 
With diamond studded spars, 

Was floating silently and slow. 
Above the mirrored stars. 

It floated on, with erimson sails 

Refleeted on the wave, 
'Till just beyond my open door. 

It anehored, near a iirave. 



The tomb was Willie's — my heart's pride. 

Long, lonely years ago 
He left m\- elingino- arms, and went 

The way that ano-els know. 



-'5 



> 



26 Grafiihnofher's Dream. 



That silent crew then left the boat 

Still rocking on the wave. 
And whispered soft my Willie's name. 

And he came from the o-rave. 

So vouno-, and bright, and beautiful ! 

I cried: "Can this be death?" 
And turned my wrinkled face away. 

And held mv pantino' breath. 

I cried in grief: "He's young and fair. 

And 1 am old and gray 1" 
And then I tore my faded hair. 

And still more turned awav. 



But Willie came to me, and said : 

"You will be fair as I, 
'Tis onlv change, there are no dead. 

And vou will never die." 



And then he sought the waiting boat. 

And out upon the sea. 
The crew of souls were soon afloat. 

And darkness fell on me. 



Then loudly, 1 began to call. 

I heard a shout of silee. 
And raised my arms, to only clasp 

Mv i;Tandchild on mv knee. 



The twilight passed, and o'er the sky 

A cloud crept, lazily. 
While lono" I mused and wondered, whv 

That stran£:e dream came to me. 



Dc Profinnh's. 27 

Dc Profundis. 

QH. winds that sweep over the woodland,' 
■^ And kiss the bright gHstening leaves, 
Do you e'er feel a pang of pity 
For some poor heart as it grieves? 

Do 3-ou ever waft toward heaven. 

A sobbing soiiTs awful ery? 
Do 3-ou e'er bring relief to the weary, 

The desolate, wishing to die? 

There are hearts in such pain, that angels, 

Who dwell in spaces abo\e. 
Would weep, did they know the anguish 

That hides '''mid the lilies of love;" 

That lurks where the sunshine, looks brightest 
And wounds, when *t were mercy to "kill, 

Then leaves the poor heart to its torture, 
And throbbing that ne'er is still — 

That ne'er is still, till the river. 

The black rolling waters of death, 
Washes its wounds with a healing 

That stifles, the quivering breath. 

Oh! clouds bend in pity above us! 

Dash down your torrents of rain, 
'Till the wildness of nature's commotion 

Shall soothe one heart's passion and pain. 

For man has no thoughts of mere}', 
More tender the wild beating rain ; 

A life is a leaf which has fallen ; 
He heeds not its throes of pain. 

Yet One, who has noticed the sparrow 
Fall, wounded and bleeding to die. 

Will watch o'er hearts that are breaking. 
And justice w\\\ come bv a^d bw 



26 Trysfi/ig. 



Frysting. 



I 



'I IE stood beside the meadow bars, 
And heard the night wind sighing; 

And saw beyond tlie clouds, where stars, 
In seas of hght, were lying. 

She saw a path, that, winding down, 

Led to a flowing fountain ; 
And heard — afar — the noisy town. 

Below a grand old mountain. 

Some flecks of gray crept o'er the sky. 
The moon looked out in wonder. 

When from above that mountain high 
There came the sound of thunder. 

A flash of light dashed o'er her eyes ; 

The rain drops seemed to chide her. 
For startled speech, and feigned surprise. 

When some one stood beside her. 

And then — ah, well ! she'd waited long, 
The day-light quite had missed her; 

That ''some one" was so bold, and strong. 
What could she do? ho kissed her. 

He kissed her twice — perhaps again — 

And this is all the story ; 
The storm had ceased its snarling, then 

The moon shone out in frlory. 



y>cn;/7—C)j//y This. 2() 

Bereft. 

If CANNOT set myself to any task 
* While, in my heart I feel this aching; 
With outward calmness, I can only ask, 
I low long :i heart must be in breaking. 

The autumn sky, if blue or leaden. 
Calm or angry, is the same to me ; 

Naught ser\es this throbbing pain to deaden, 
Nor soothes the wildness of my misery. 

The earth seems all a portion of my woe, 
Tlie season brings me only sorrow ; 

To-dav goes dragging with dull f(K)tsteps, slow, 
And hope speaks nothing for to-morrow. 

Author of light! 1 11 mercy send some token 
From Kden-land, to rest my weary heart. 

Or break the chords of life — so nearly broken — 
And let mv spirit from this world depart. 



Only This. 



|%NLY the shades of sorrow, 
^ Only the stain of sad tears ; 
Only no hope for the morrow, 

()nly the wearisome years. 
Only fair promises broken. 

Only a long vanished trust. 
Only a hatred unspoken, 
Cinly a heart in the dust. 

This for the sunshine of gladness; 

This for the joy we had dreamed ; 
This for the trust — ah, our madness; 

This for the future that gleamed. 
This for the loxe we had gi\en ; 

This for the faith of a soul ; 
This for our fond hope of lleaxen; 

This for the sum of the whole. 



Siirrendcreci 

[Written on the Siirreiulor oi a uotei Missouri Crimiiuvl, Oe(obor Ttli. lj^'>. 

j/EE that man, with his dark brows bent; 
Jl' There he stands, with his heart on tire. 
Bowed 'neath burdens of discontent. 
Humbled into the very mire. 

We are many — he is but one ; 

Haunted, hunted, from dawn till dark, • 
Keeping- at bay, from sun to sun. 

Those who have claimed him for a mark. 

Now he comes, hke Saul, to the cross. 
Comes and surrendei-s gun and sword : 

Who will sift the £Co\(\ from the dross? 
Has merer now. no pitvintr word? 

He who prays to the son of man 
For pardon, neVr receives a blow. 

Shall one humbled and full of pain. 
Suing for mercy be answered — '*No?"' 

Are souls of men so mean, and small. 
That for rerensre thev smite a foe 

Unarmed, coming from sin's mad thrall. 
From darkness, misery and woe? 

Look where graves of his loved ones lie : 

Almost last of his race is he ; 
Note his mother's tear-dimmed eye ; 

Let the past, as a dead thing be. 

Had L to-dav, sovereign power. 

Pardon should set this sad soul free. 

Fetters should fall from him this hour : 
Calm should sleep on this restless sea. 



//' Tou Slioitlil Die. ji 

Human jiassion, and huinan [)ain, 

Go hand in hand o'er life's rouL^h wave, 

VVron<^ed, antl \vr()n;^-doer so(;n shall stand 
On common ground — the lonely irravc. 

Make i;Tand one day of yours, oh, man, 

Lifted to power, brief as hi^'h. 
Take fr(jm this scorned one, death's cold ban. 

Let only hatred, and murder, die. 

An<>-cl of mercy, touch all souls 

With pity — for this outlawed one; 
Who comes from hidini( away in holes, 

And says to Law: " 'I'hy wmII be done." 

Jud^-ment, hanf^ing innocent men. 

Is no atonement due for this? 
Who shall judi^e thes.e Judges, when 

They stand where judgment and justice kiss? 

Once a governor's son, condemned 

lujr murder, laid in felon's cell ; 
'I'hc father pardoned, then resio-ned ; 

He knew his duty, and he did it well. 



!f You Should Die. 

F you should die, the world would seem so dark to me. 
That looking out upon its vast, bleak, sullen] |sea, 
I should go mad with agony, and pray 

That Cjod would take my wretched life away. 



If you should die, the birds could sing no song, 
^ And clouds would hide the sunlight all day long 
For me; and in my hea\'y brooding grief, 

I should pray — "Death, r,h, come to my relief!" 



J 2 The Last Call. 

If you shoukl die, the phantom of some bitter thing 
Tliat 1 have said, would from my memory spring, 

And show me all the sadness and surprise 

That look from out those tender, troubled ej'cs. 

If you should die, I should be dumb with sueh despair 
As loads the human heart with deathless care; 

My soul would tremble 'neath such freight of woe 
As onl}' those bereft of loved ones know. 



The Last Call. 

[Written on tlio doatli of Uov. \V. M. CIuh'vim-. of Kansas I'ity 1 

HILD of n\\ love, it is enough. 
Thy patient spirit shall have rest : 
Thy tasks are done, the victorv won 

O'er care and toil, o'er pain and death. 

A palm thou bearest — enter in,_ 

Where storms and troubles nexer come ; 

The feast is spread, the wine is red — 
Child of mv tender love, come home ! 

The way was rough, }et no complaint ; 

Thy faith was stronger than thy pain ; 
Thy courage, grand, could e'en command 

A Bethel, over sorrow's reiirn. 

Pure, noble heart, thy life hath been 
A cUnid of incense, rising higher, 

A\ hen touching praver, ascended there, 
As thou did'st feel the furnace tire. 

Thy flocks were tended with such care 
As watchful shepherds evyr gix e ; 

Come home and rest, e'en on His breast, 
Thv work shall vet lonix aixes live. 



The BcUs of iSj6. 33 

The Bells of 1876. 

m^ DREAMERS awake! Hear ye not the wild bells, 
^^ With clamorous tongues, say '^The New Year is 

here?'' 
Awake, men! Awake! While their son'rous chime 

■ swells ; , 

Awake to life's duty, with hope and no fear. 

Dreamers, awake from your lethargic slumber, 
'Rouse, ere the morning's best hours are lost; 
There are deeds to be done— grand deeds without 

number — 
Wake, or vain dreaming shall count t?o your cost. 

Dreamers awake, for the good of the nation ; 
There are hands at the throat of its honor and truth; 
Awake in the might of your manhood's creation. 
And save from the spoiler, a land in its youth. 

Worlds count by ages, not years, and to-morrow 
May fashion a grave, and our liberties slay; 
Then wake, or your sleep may bring you a sorrow 
That death will dispel on oblivion's day. 

O, hark! Hear that wail from sad and oppressed ones. 
The low stifled cries from throats grasped by thieves; 
Awake in your might, and relieve the distressed ones, 
The harvest is waiting, go gather your sheaves. 

Fling out your banners, with blood printed mottoes : 
''Truth, justice. Liberty, Right, or the Tomb!" 
Let the breeze bear them forth, from mountains and 

grottoes. 
Over snow-mantled peaks, through the rich valley s 

bloom. 

Dreamers awake! Other nations are scorning 
The land that vour forefathers bought with their blood ; 
Awake, or God's anger may break ere the morning. 
And sweep vou away, like drift on a flood. 



j^ Margay Cross. 

aro-crv Cross. 



^LD MARGERY HvM at the foot of the hill. 
In a tumble-down house near the rinned mill. 
And ever she muttered and murmured of loss. 
And so the folks ealled her'' Old Margery Cross."' 

Her former abiding plaee, nobody knew. 

Not e\en her name, and a sad storm would brew 

If any one offered her threshold to cress. 

Or ventured too near die old lunise, tliatehed with moss. 

^ My name is just ^Margery,"' she crossly said, 
'* And I ha\-e no kin-folks — none li\ino- cr dead." 
It was thus that their breath, in quizzing, was lost. 
And so thev just r.amed her " Old Marirery Cross."' 

How the old dame lived, fared she illy or well. 
There was nobody knew — so no one could tell. 
She planted some flowers, and gathered much moss, 
And iio more was kntnvn of Old ^larirery Cress. 

At the top cif the hill ii\ed go \i Deacon Brown, 
Just the saintliest man about the whole town. 
He had acres, and acres, and acres of land. 
And gold in the bank he could always command. 

He had a i;-ood wife, and some children well iirown : 
Abundance of wealth, and a beautiful home. 
He piled up his gold, as he flung away dross. 
And never once thouirht of Old Mari2er\- Cross. 

And yet, far av/a) , in the days that had been, 

lie had caused her to sin life's bitterest sin. 

He had gained her pure heart, its love ard its trust. 

And had torn and trampled it into the dust. 

The child had not lived — and she buried her shame 
In its grave, as she buried her ruined name. 
She never became •* a wild girl of the town," 
And p.ever forgot the pure name she gave Brown. 



The Old Gate. j- 

So when she grew faded, and wrinkled, and gra}-. 
As those quickly grow, who have trouble, they say, 
She thought over the past, and heaved a deep sigh. 
And said " I wt.uld like to mo\-e near him to die." 

One morning so cliill, when the snow fell in clouds, 
All blinding, and settling on men like white shrouds, 
Some one thought to look at the house gray with moss, 
And said ^'There's no smoke nervr the tlue of Dame 
Cross."' 

"Why, what could it mean?" Many ran down to see ; 
And there sat Dame Cross, as dead as could be. 
In her old arm chair near the small window's light. 
She sat resting and smiling. Iler dimming sight 

Had lovingly rested on two pictures old. 

Which she clingingly held in her hand so cold. 

There was a sweet, wee bab}-, blue-e}'ed and fair 

And a tiny ringlet cf soft golden hair, 

Then a semblance of manhood, with sombre frown. 

Which the neighbors said 'Mocked like Deacon Brown." 



The Old Gate. 

Wh}' am 1 waiting here, you ask, 
By the old gate on the hill, 

I watch the moon creep o'er the sk}-. 
And list to the whip-poor-will. 

I wait the steps of one who went 
Far awa}-, long years ago ; 

Who said, as he kissed me o-ood-bve. 
You will meet me here I know. 

I know not where he werit, nor wlien 
lie will pass this trvst again. 

But this I know, I watch and wait. 
For my loving, prince cf men. 



S6 . ^ The Old Gate. 

Ah, yes, it is man}- a year, 

As you sa}- ; my hair is white, 

Old and gray, since he went away. 
That sorrowful, moonlit night. 

But when my love comes back again, 
And finds how I've waited here — 

All these 3-ears — so patiently. 
With never a moan or tear, 

Will clasp me in his arms, and say : 
"How fair and sweet you have grown; 

Your faded hair, and lines of care, 

Shows how vou have loved, mv own." 

And then I shall laugh merril}-, 
And dance in the maddest glee ; 

I shall grow young and fair again. 
When my love returns to me. 

False, did you say.^ O, speak again! — 
Yet your words are worse than blows — 

Speak calm, and clear, I scarce can hear; 
And her voice in ano^uish rose. 

A wife, did you say? far away, 
And sweet little children three. 

My God ! so I have lived to know 
That mv love is false to me.^ 

Then prone she fell by the old gate. 
This woman, insane with woe. 

She murmured "Alas! I can now wait 
For him no more below." 

The old farm house is tenantless. 
But the gate swinsjs to and fro. 

As if her spirit came and went, 
x\s it did in the long ago. 



Temptation — Struggle Cpivard. jy 

Temptation. 

Q\ TAKE 3'our dark, bright face away ! 
"^ Those rosy Hps I covet ; 

Go hide your brow from me to-day, 

With golden curls above it. 
Or shall I clasp 3'ou in my arms 

And hold and kiss you, maybe? 
So do not tempt me with your charms, 
My bonnie, winsome lady. 

Lift not 3'our eyes in such a wa}-, 

My heart is wildly beating — 
Ah ! when I plead, why do you say — 

"I love 3'ou not!" retreating. 
'Tis well you go, for did 3-ou stay, 

My arm would be about 3'Ou ; 
Na3^ do not smile, m3' roguish fa3'. 

How could I live without 3'ou.^ 

Struggle Upward. 

ETTER to struggle and toil up hill, 
P) Though hearts grow faint, and lingers bleed, 
Than rushing go — like the mountain rill — 
Downward, with eager, headlong speed. 

Stem the swift tide ; never id 13^ drift ; 

In life's great conflict strive to win, 
Cling to the oar, in the rapids swift. 

And fight 3-our way from their roaring din. 

Pull with a will, strength conquers all ; 

Keep up the stream, beware the sands ! 
Row for 3-our life — out from the fall — 

Keep to the right with stead3' hands. 

Who can say that 30U will not win? 

Watch the beam of the guidinor star ; 
Steer from the quicksand shoals of sin — 

There, just there, is the harbor bar. 



J> 



^S ( oqucffiinj,'' 



!«' 



CoqiicttmL 

^^TnO vou 1c)\"c inc.-'* he asked, in tone so low. 

^ 'rhe twilight breeze held its breath to listen. 
And when, half in jest, she answered him "No!"" 

The eyes of the pansies 'ii"an to glisten 
With tear-ilrops, like dew. :uul a Katydid 

L'rietl, ''Ah, yes you do!" in the green leaves hid. 

" Do }"ou lo\'e me?" again, in tender tone. 

Exquisite, dreamy, yet haunted with woe; 
And the maiden saiil, as she clasped her zone, 

*" Listen, snon a mi, I told you no." 
But a bee, 'wa\- down in a honey cell. 

Half asleep, grumbled, "yes. she loves you well." 

"]>c^ \oii Une me?'" once more that same querv. 
She ckul not dream it might be the last ; 

"Three times, three times," moaned the night-wind 
dreary ; 
And a bird cried out. " say yes," as he passed. 

Oh, what spirit of e\il possessed her. 

'*No." she exclaimed with an impatient frown, 
Tlien the wind beat her face and oppressed her. 

And when she UH)ked up, her lo\er liad gone. 

Gone! anil the pansies low bow to mock her. 
Gone ! and night-wind will gi\c her iio rest. 

But rallies her cascmciu on purpose to sluK^k her, 
And cr\- in its drear tones, '"n'ou K)ved him best." 

The Katydids clash their wings together. 
And laugh at her, in mid-autumn weather. 

And roses — ah ! \ou would not believe it, 

Thev shake their bright rc^bes and peer at her so. 

*" Happiness came ; \"ou woidd not receive it. 
All mortals must reap the har\est they sow." 

Her heart now aches 'neath its burden of pain. 
She cries for her true lo\e. a1wa\s in vain. 



Tlic Suicide. :>Q 



i he SliickIc. 



|t-Sv\RK ! 1 hear :i low moaning crv 
\^ On the chill night wind, sweeping b\- ; 
A mournful, sighing, sobbing tone. 
""I am sick of being alone.'"' 

You call it " madness,"' "tis not so, 

"Tis but the spirit crying low. 
In its desire to rest, to sleep 

There where the bending willows weep. 

List to the undernote of pain 

Wailing out in this weird refrain : 

"Weary of living, so tired; oh! 
Sexer these bonds and let me go. 

I beat the bars, an.d strive to rend 

These chains which hold me, they but bend 

And clasp me closer than before ; 
Who will open m}' prison door? 

Oh, set me free ! and I will bless 

'J'he hand that wounds me ; and caress 

The steel which lets the life blood flow: 
Release me then, and let me iio. 

They tell me that this prison old. 

Will crumble soon, and turn to mould ; 

Why must I bear this slow deca^•? 
Ah, loose me now, and I'll awa^■. 

Thex' say I'm crazed. TIicn- do not see 
The fearful things which torture me. 

Here in this gloomy prison deep. 

Where I must sigh, and ra\e, and weep. 

Why should I wait.-' This potent draught 
Will give me freedom, when 'tis quaffed; 

So here's to Death ! that grim old kin<r 
Who gives to fettered spirits, wing. 



^0 



'J,> ( ir<nit/iiiii Kiilliih'i' 



lo Cliaiidina kiilliiier. 

llicii'l 111 a l{iM'(|>tliin (.riven ti\ licr llmuir, .livuiiiuy, Ikki.] 

l''iill mccJ dl |>i;iisi' is iliu- lo oiu' 
Whose i;U(' «>! liU", now ii(';iil\ iiin, 
IIms 1)1 tm Willi ih;irit\ so lr:iii;nil. 
And cMiiu-sl C'lnis(i:iii picvrpl l.iiij'lit, 
'I'liiil none, I (liink, who iiiuln'st.Miul, 
(.';m \m\ Id ollfi li iriulslii p's Imiul. 

ITow mniiN \i';ns ihis j^nitlr oiu' 
lias goiu', 'mill snow, niul i.iin, ;nul sun. 
To c'ivr ii"Ii('l U) somr sail hrail, 
Smaitiui; l>i'i\rath iliill sotrow's ilail ; 
Aiul nr'cM' lias oiuf Ihhii IumhI to sa\ : 
"• 'I'lir stoiiu will Uro|> iiu> lioiur lo-day." 

Aiul now, Ih-IioKI Iut snow-whilr hair, 
llri ihouj'jiliiil hrow, si-aiiud iU"i-|^ h\ caio, 
Aiul Moir ilu" :.oil cyi's' ju'Mlir hraiu. 
Tin- siniU", as switI as inlaiilV. iln-ani, 
Aiul lliiiil^ how soon llu> hour must lonio 
W'luMi cNi's air riosrd, aiul lips an' ihiinh ; 

Then answiM, it' it is iu>t w'oll 

'W^i luMiof (MU' w hosi" iK'oils so till 

( >l I ,o\i-, ami h'aith, ami *,"haiit\'? 

(,)l all lIu- .".la^i's, swerlrst lht'i"i> ; 

Anil ti'll im-, it onr shoulil sa\ , 

"Pis WTonj" to show out lo\i> this \va\ . 



W i", who ^la\^• known hvi \rar 1>\ \i"ai 
lla\v' liunr to pa\' this tiihutr lioir; 
lla\r nut lo show lUii lo\ o loi' oiu" 
W'hosi' path lii's mar thr sottini;" sun. 
\\\'\\ while wo testil\- ouf Kni\ 
Hrii'ht anvels watih tor lua aho\i>. 



•/ A////C // 7/ //<■.— i:>/rrs. 



'}r 



A I/itiK- While. 



(^j I^l'l'l l>l^ vvliilr, ;iii(I, ;ill (tin p.ilii l()r;';()l(rn, 
^fl/J^ We'll list with loidt'd IkuuIs in j)c;urliil slrcp ; 
A little while, ■.\\\(] vvoiiiuis, by loes lor^olteii. 
Will no iiKMi' ;uhe, -.[nil e\('s no lonj^ci ween. 

A little whiK', ;in(l ;ill oni \;iin nnihilion 

Will still .111(1 silent be, .'iiul no nioie press 

Its \vi'iL!,hl, to iii.u our sonTs Iruition; 

'Twill in.'ike the <;i"a\ e-nioiiiul neilliei nioie noi lo>s. 

A little while, Ai^i] enilh v\ill shield ;ind hide us, 
^'et we sh;ill leel no weight upon the hieasl; 

All storms l()r«:;()t, thai e\il eoiild hetide lis, 
l*ast, like a dream, and we shall be at test. 



Voices. 



|"()Mh:'IMMh:S I hear o\t waters still, 
Jl] The low, swccl tones 1 used lo heai ; 
i'.re loved one crossed the ri\ei (hill. 
And lell me sliieken dumb with (ear. 

1 know, indeed, it laniiot be. 
Yet oil m laiu \ , when alone, 

'I he dear old days eoiiie ba( k to me. 
And with them eai h icmembeicd lone. 

I wonder il, be\(ind the ;.;ale, 

'J'hey do not olten hear a ei y 
h'roin some sad soiil. Ion;; iloomed lo wail, 

Henealh ihe (old, imj)ityin_L;' sky? 

I think oin lo\cd oiu-s are not ( haimcd. 

Who (KmII ab()\c in blissliil icst. 
That from us the\' are not estranged, 
liiit lo\c us alwa\s, deaicst, best. 



4^ 



The Dead Here. 



The Dead H 



ero. 



p,REAT waves of woe roll o'er the land, 
-^ Sad notes of pain chill every heart, 
Low lies the one, born to command. 

Conquered, at last, h\ Death's dread dart. 



Heroes, in this age, are few; 

That he was great is /now confessed ; 
Ne'er beat a heart more brave and true, 

Within a pulsing human breast. 

Cold, like a stone, is he, and still. 

No aspirations thrill his frame. 
Where fled the firm, undaunted will 

That wrought on pinnacles of fame! 

A warrior bold, a statesman true. 

His life reads like some storied page, 

Whereon is traced, in letters new, 
The iiTandeur of another age. 

His tender heart felt every blow 

Struck b}- the minions foul, of hate ; 

He suffered from ignoble foe 
ITntil his life gre".v desolate. 

Then God, in mercy, called ''come home!" 
And up from every hill and dale. 

From ever}' land where brave men roam, 
There came the voice of sorrow's wail. 

And those that hurt him slunk away 

Like hounds, when driven from the trail; 

And clear the light of Honor's ra}- 
Shone o'er him then, like holy grail. 

The nation bows her head and weeps, 
While, on a solemn, sacred bier. 

The nation's hero sweetly sleeps. 
Unheeding sigh, or moan, or tear. 



Tzco Pic'i/res. ^j 



I \\c) Pictures. 

[Writtei\ on reading of ;i heantifiil being, in tlie lirst fliisli of vvonianlioo 1 who w t8 
found, lying in a drunken .slumber, on the ice of the l\Ii>,s uri riv.T -a Katists 
City ] .... 

iQyER downy couch, wheiv slept a child, 
^^ An angel bent her pitying gaze ; 
And though the baby lips oft smiled, 
The angel saw the cominir" days. 

Then swift, on wings of light, she sped 

Unto the bu.sy courts of Death, 
And tr) that gloomy m anarch said : 

"Pray, give to me a dear child's breath." 

'•''I fain wcnild snatch a tiny girl 

From future, blacker than the night; 

A babe so fair, one golden curl 

Would almost make lost Eden bright."*^ 

'* ril be her tender mother, I 

Will guide her gentle spirit ways 
Along the fairest paths of sk\-. 

And shield her from too \ivid rays."" 

Pale Death unto the cluimber came, 
A spectre, none but Lo\e could see — 

But e'en thro' night's expiring flame, 
The mother saw that myster\- — 

Saw, and such tjars as methers shed 
W^hen low they kneel, and wildly pray. 

Until the hours of pain ha\e sped. 
She cried, and gained the yictoiA'. 

The disappointed angel bowed 

Her peerless head, and thanked the Kr'o- 
Then lost was she amid the crowd 

Which watch o'er Time's sad reckoning-. 



^^ Tivo Pictures. 

* -k -k * ik * 

The years ! What wings of speed have they ! 

They come, and e'er our welcome words 
Are said, they are but shadows gray, 

A^d flit away, Hke dismal birds. 

The years ! What changes do they bring ! 

That mother now, with tears, and prayer. 
Mourns ever, 'till the heavens ring 

With the mad echoes of despair. 

"My child!'' she cries, all day and night; 

'■'' If thou hads't died in those past years. 
My heart had risen from the blight, 

My eyelids now be free from tears.'' 

There, on the river's frozen face, 
Drunk ! In sight of God and man. 

In all her wond'rous, witching grace — 
Only a thinor for human ban. 

And o'er her now, as in the past. 
The self-same angel. Virtue^ bends, 

And sighs, '' M}' reign is o'er at last. 
In her wild heart. Ah ! thus it ends." 

If ansrels ever shed a tear : 

If e'er they make one human moan. 

It is when tender hearts grow sear. 

And ]'/ce usurps sweet Virtue's throne. ' 



J/v Pastor's Jr//e. ^j 

My Pastor's Wife. 

/HE has gone away to other seenes ; 
Between us mighty rivers roll ; 
But still my yearning spirit leans 
To greet her pure, unselfish soul. 

I know she thinks of me, and ah ! 

How oft I ponder o'er the past. 
Dreaming of her the moments fly, 

Too full of sacredness to last. ~ 

For O ! my heart; its inmost thought 
Could bring to her, so sure to find 

Sweet comfort, from her spirit wrought, 
In earnest words, low, tender, kind. 

A wayward soul has been my own. 
And sorrow oft has been its guest ; 

Much conflict has my sad heart" known, 
Yet she could lull its sobs to rest. 

When I have felt some sting of pain. 
Deep in my breast, then she would say 

Such soothing things, that once again. 
My soul would seek ^Mhe perfect way." 

She helped to bear the heavy load 

That bowed my spirit in the dust. 
And led me on that pleasant road 

Where flowers grow, of peace and trust. 

She does not dream how much I miss 
Her cheering words, nor how I- need 

Her tender smile, her loving kiss, 
Her gentle hand, to guide and lead. 

O,- God of merc}-. Thou who sent 

This wond'rous grace, from Thy full store, 

Grant me such portion, then content 

M}- heart will rest, and crave no more. 



^6 



T-:o Little (lirls. 



Two Little Girls. 



^WO little iL:;irls, with shy blue eyes, 
L()()kin«j^ out in soul surprise. 
Came to m}' door from woodland shade. 
And, nestling near niv heart, have sta^-ed. 

One was white, like the winter snow. 
Her cheeks with roses all aglow; 
The other — like a lilv — fair. 
With sunshine caught in waves of hair. 

One was a proud patrician. She 
Scorned the looks of poverty. 
The other felt a tender pain 
For S(»rrows chill and woeful rain. 

Their mother sleeps the dreamless sleep, 
And 'tis my legac}' to keep 
These little feet from straying wide, 
Tliey have no other human guide. 

Sometimes the burden of unrest 
Presses so hard mv aching breast, 
1 think, and sav — '"It cannot be 
God sent these orphan waifs to me.*' 

But whe.i the night of pain is o'er, 
I only prav, and lo\e them more, 
Striving to do a mother's part 
By these dear girls, left near mv heart. 



Two little ifirls : Six years ago 
They came, and now they love me so. 
I could not give them up, for they 
So mind me of their mother's way. 



,If 



To M. MjrtU S—. 47 

To M. Myrtle S--. 

alTTLE namesake, let me greet thee 
^ With sweet faney's loving kiss ; 
Let me, as a songbird, meet thee. 
Trilling notes of perfeet bliss. 

Let me wish thee skies the fairest 
Heaven e'er bent o'er favored one; 

Let ni'j wish thee days the rarest. 
Clearest moon and brightest sun. 

May the storms of life ne'er 'larm thee, 
May the shadows ne'er be dense ; 

May the paths of wisdom eharm thee, 
Guarded by mild f^rovidenee. 

May the promises of beauty 

(jlowi ng on thy earnest face. 
Make thee ne'er forget the duty, 

That will give it sweetest grace. 

And when thou art in the highway. 

Leading to sweet womanhood. 
An wis shield thee from from the by-way — 

Keep thee ever pure and good. 

And may life its choicest treasures 

Place around thee, one by one ; 
May it give the fullest measures. 

Till thy work on earth is done. 

Then mav Heaven throw wide its portal, 
And the seraphs ''welcome" sing 

To thy precious soul, immortal, 
'Till the vaulted skies shall ring. 



^S HoHicsici' 



Homesick. 



llfey^E stood alone beside the sea, 
^\^ And watched the darkening clouds arise \ 
The cold winds bleakly swept the lea, 
He heard a sea bird's mournful cries. 



A stranger, in a strange, new land. 

He stood beside the sea. alone. 
And toward the waves stretched eager hand 

And pra^'ed, "Oh! great sea, take me home." 

Amid the crowd he moved alone. 

No eye lit up with love for him ; 
He heard no tender human tone. 

And no familiar German h3'mn. 

And he was lone, so sadly lone. 

While all the throng went quickly by ; 

And to his lo\ed and distant home 
He lon^'ed on eas^le win^s to flv. 



O" 



He prayed aloud, "Oh! take me, Death; 

Fly nearer, closer unto me, 
Be quick, and waft awaN- my breath, 

And let me die beside the sea.'' 

They found him dead, }et knew n(;t how. 

They could not see his broken heart. 
They wiped the damp from off his brow. 

And laid him, from the throng, apart. 

A wife, or' mother, waits for him, 

Somewhei"e bevond the foaminir wave. 

The}' cannot see — through distance dim — 
In this strange land, his lonelv £rrave. 



Ill OS c Days. ^g 

Those Days. 

^ HAVE you forgotten those old days, 
^-^ Away in the skmibermg past, 
Those da3's of a summer-time glory, 
Ah ! too beautiful far to last. 

Where a forest broke the soft meadow, 
And the sun-kissed brooklet grew eool, 

As it wandered away to the woodland 
And gathered itself in a pool. 

Where the lea\es of the beach and the maple. 

Were mirrored in pictures so clear, 
That you wished there miirht always be sunshine 

The whole of the beautiful >ear. 

Where you heard, from the midst of the tree tops, 

A twitter of notes, so like words, 
That j'ou fancied there might be sweet angels 

Conversing up there, with the birds. 

Where the winds and the waves ran together, 
And chatted and laughed on their way, 

'Till the violets leaned their banks over. 
And hearkened to what they might say. 

Then kissed the green grass in their rapture, 

Until it grew led with surprise, 
And murmured "these blossoms so modest, 

Could dazzle a world with their eyes.'' 

O ! those days, when the trrumblinir city 

Was lost to the ear and the e3-e, 
And you cried, in a wild gush of anguish, 

"O! God, let mc dream 'till I die.'' 

While the bousrhs bent caressiuirh- downward, 
And patted ^■()ur cheeks with cool hands, 

'Till the zephvrs, all trembling with envy, 
Swift brouo-ht \o\\ a breath from sea strands. 



50 



'///()//>>■///.<. 



()! tliosc days! those glorious Jiiu- clavs. 
Will tlu'v noNcr conic back from tlu- sea? 

Has oblixion wicckcil tlictn foiwcr, 
Ami lost thcni in you and to inc? 

Shall wc lU'xiT a^ain know the laplufc, 
St) dear, in lilc's innocent spiiiiLi,", 

Nor lind in the wide world the beauty 
Those old da\s were \^■ont^■l.l to biini''.'' 



rhoib'hls. 



lll\l\i\ is sop.u'thini'' t\>i"c\ei' occui'i-inLi,', 



At winch we ina\' smile, (n- must xwcp. 
As the world, with its rushiiiL:; ami stiniui;". 
Wakes mem ny out ol her sleep. 

The summer comes sooihinLi,' w ith showci's ; 

W c smile \\ lu'u a tainbow is spicail ; 
\\ I' stot)p to carcs-< the brii;ht tk)wi'rs. 

And ^rasp onl\- thorns in their sti-atl. 

W'c smile, \ (.'t w.- know that the l.nintain 

Ol sorrow has ne\er run ih \- ; 
Ami tiHuiblcs rise up like' a mountain, 

(iloonu, unciMiain ami hii^h. 

The triends — bi'st bcKucil — soon tori^'ct us ; 

Or tui n wears laces awa\ ; 
Ncxer more to esteem or ii'urct us, 
khou^h lite lini'"ers man\ a daw 



Thus onward throuL:,h lite we ari' i^oin^' ; 

Our ila\s like a ri\er rush b\- ; 
\\ I' led their tunudtuous tlowinu". 

And know that the i>ct.'an is ni^h. 



full))' Mynr. 



5i 



'ri\crc is sonicthiiiL; Ioicmt occunini;; 

At \vliifli \vc inust smile or may rave; 
A mist o'er the laiulscape is hhirrin«x, 

That vision het'oie us — the iiraxe. 



I)al)\' AI\ra. 

j|^,AlN'^^' maitlen, ma\- hte's blessinii's 
'^ VwW ill elust.-r 'rouiul thy patli, 
IMayst thou e'er he I )iullv shelteivil 
From all storms of eartlily wratli. 

May no ilin of life alarm thee 
May no feai's th\- heait oppress, 

May no e\il ever harm thee; 
Aixl no cloubtinLT brim>- distress. 



May thy fi-iends he all ti in^-liearted. 

Faithful — though the world should frown- 
May thy path be strewn with loses. 
Or with softest eidi'i- down. 

May Dame l"\>rtune smile upon thee, 
l>rin_i;-in«;' from liei" fiuitful stoiv 

Rarest treasuivs. fi-om the oeean, 

.\nd from e\ery i;c'm-er()w ned shoie. 

Then ma\- llealtli i;i\e thee hei- blessin<r; 

And her kisses, full and free ; 
In her lo\al arms (.aiessinij;. 

With rare faxois, thine ami thee. 



These the wishes that 1 brini;- thee, 

Trul}' favored little one; 
May' St thou be the sweetest lady 

F\er smilini;- 'neath the sun. 



^2 After JMaiiy 2'ears. 

After Many Years. 



I 



CANNOT sing the happy notes 

I sang long years ago, 
Although the music faintly Boats 

O'er Lethe's mystic flow ; 
And your voice, like a silver lute, 

So soft and sweetly dwells 
Within ra}' heart ; my tongue is mute 

Or — only anguish tells. 

A maiden, in the May of life. 

When all is fair and bright ; 
When earth to her with ]o\ is rife, 

Can warble with delight 
Notes like the birds, in matin song. 

Pour out upon the air ; 
A woman with a saddened heart 

May only breathe — Despair. 

Since you and 1 stood, hand in liand. 

And sunjj- our soncrs to^rether. 
And looking o'er the sunny land. 

Saw only pleasant weather — 
Wild storms have come, those songs are still. 

No joyous warble ever 
Comes to my lips, or heart, nor will 

It come again forever. 

No heaven blest interpreter 

Has e\er read for me — 
The ''Mene TekeP' on the wall. 

To sa-s' why this must be ; 
But sorrow chill, like snow-flake's fall. 

Has broke my summer's rest. 
And placed a winter's coldest pall 

Fore\er on \w\ breast. 



7?r.s7. 5j 



Dear friend ! Sweet-heart of long ago, 

The many drifting years, 
Have left among my locks the snow 

And footprints of their tears; 
Yet glad am I — your eyes are bright, 

And 3-ou've seen pleasant weather, 
Since when we stood, that blissful night. 

And sunir y:av sonijs too:ether. 



Rest. 

"TlnTC tlif Wicked cease In-iii Trouliliiiy:. ;ui(l the ANCary he at litest."— Job. 

I^ARKING Care, with tireless footsteps. 

Haunts us all the weary way; 
Whither turn we, still she follows 

Close beside us every day. 
But she cannot cross the River, 

Ah, she cannot harm the blest. 
Where ""the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary be at rest.'' 

Sad-eyed Woe, her awful burden 

Presses on our hearts at will ; 
Have we brietiy oncti escaped her, 

Does sweet jo}' our pulses thrill? 
Suddenly she comes before us. 

We must own her dreadful swa}'. 
While dark clouds of grief sweep o'er us. 

Driving all our rest awav. 

Sin has tracked us on our journey 

From the cradle to the tomb — 
Stolen from our life its brightness, 

Pristine purity and bloom. 
List I we hear the rolling Jordan! 

Oh, what rapture thrills our breast ! 
""There the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the wcarv be at rest.'' 



'■''Bt' at rest I" no care, no sorrow, 
^ And no innate, hauntiny- sin ; 
Fear, nor dreading' of the morrow, 

AVith its noisy, earthl)- din : 
Wliere no ill can e'er befall lis. 

Malice, spite or en\y come 
With their tortures to appall us; 

Only Rest, and Peace, and Home. 

O, I thank Thee, Ciod of mercw 

For Tin' promises so sweet. 
Perfect, in Divine compassion 

To our needs made so complete : 
Yet there's oic amontr these treasures 

That I hold as dearest, best. 
Fullest of Thv precious measures — 

'Tis the often promisetl "Rest." 



For 



i>"ivcn. 



)fN the happy realms of lastini;- bliss, 
^^ In the inner courts of love's own heaven, 
There is no sweeter word than this — 
Nor briii'hter thouirht — 'T am forijiven." 

When clouds are luirryinL:,', scurrying b\'. 

And gloom reigns weird — h\ lightning riven, 

A bow spans o'er affection's skN' ; 

We watch, and read — "I am forgiven." 

Ah, soon from earth we pass awa\'. 
The weary soul seeks other haven ; 

Our anger lasts but for a da^■ ; 

In life, or death, we are foririNcn. 

W^hy should we hold to spite and wrath. 

Why should oin* hearts be rent and ri\en, 
"When up the way there shines a path 
Made luminous by this — '"foraiven." 



( ri)I(/ or / )l-()SS. ^5 

Gold or Dross. 

I WxVLKEI) alone 'ncath woodland shade, 

The forest j>ath was e(;ol and dim ; 
The breezes with the green leaves played, 
The birds san<^ sweet their mornini'" hymn. 

Lite stretehed before me fair and bright, 

For all the future did proclaim : 
There were no sorrows dire to blight. 

No phantoms of a cold world's blame, 

INI)' e^•es cast down in thoughtfulntss, 

Alone I walked in careless ease ; 
Life's riddles were a tiresome guess, 

Life's burdens! What and where were these? 

Thus thinking — Lo ! before my sight. 

Two baubles shone amid the sand ; 
I raised them from their dusty plight 

And held them, gleaming, in ni)- hand. 

'"' Choose ye'' — a \'oicc spoke from the gloom 
Of forest depths, "take dross, or gold; 

In those small baubles lies th\- doom ; 
Thy fortune now thou dost behold." 

T turned the baubles o'er and o'er. 

But could not say w^hich was the bist ; 

Perhaps one sparkled once the more. 

And thus my choice stood there confessed, 

Alas ! the gold I cast awa}-. 

And kept the dross, a sacred thing ; 
I chose it, aild one dreary day 

'Twas fashioned in a bridal ring. 

My life grew like the worthless stone. 

Heavy, and dull, and full of w^oe ; 
I fought relentless fate alone, 

Cj 

In wretchedness no heart could know. 



^6 A Perfect Djy. 

Long years this changeless fate was mine, 
And I was weary of the years ; 

In secret wept, yet ga\e no sign 
Of sorrow's bitter, burning tears. 

One dav, in sudden, scornful wrath, 
I threw the cheating dross awa\". 

Far out beyond my lonely path, 

And cried — '' Now find it, ^•e who ma)-."* 

The world was shocked, and so was I ; 

The deed was done, could 1 repent? 
1 turned my face from earth to sky. 

There read Ciod's blessing with content. 

Now I can hear the wild-bird's song 

\Vithout one thought of that sad choice ; 

Can walk the paths of life along. 
And in its harmony rejoice. 



A Perfect Daw 

OW still and peaceful looks the world. 
The little world that I behold ; 
The maples' silken leaves unfurPd, 

just touched with Autumn's brown and gold. 

The dowers, the frost king spares to bloom. 
Lift their bright heads in careless glee. 

And breathe their wealth of sweet perfume — 
Their breath of fragrant mystery. 

Caught in the spider's silken net, 

The dew drops hang in gleaming gems. 

The heliotrope, and mignonette. 

Shake diamonds from their glistening stems. 

The softened gra}' along the sky. 

Through which the blue sends tender gleam, 
flakes pictures fair, to artist eve, 

Dear as an old-time poet's dream. 



Tribute. 

They tell mc that the world is rent 
By storms of passion ; can it be 

That feud, and faction, discontent. 
Sweep o'er the land from sea to sea? 

Must wrath, and hatred, envy's hiss. 
He felt, and heard, to wound the heart 

On such a perfect day as this. 
Is God and man so far apart? 



57 



Tribute. 

I'I'd the Mciiiory of Dr. TlmiiKis ,1. IMinilfidiiicrv ] 

fjNOTIIER noble heart has ceased to beat; 
^ Another pure, white soul has passed from earth. 
The bodv lies beneath the windinir sheet; 

The spirit knows the grandeur of immortal birth. 

We weep, because we miss him; knowing well' 

Our tears for this great loss, will never mar his gain, 

We almost hear his song of rapture swell — 
For ah ! the old life was so full of pain. 

We shall miss his brigJit example of patient trust, 
But thouirh his soul is soarimr like the lark. 

And the poor, tired body goes to dust. 
His life has left a lasting "-merit mark.'' 

A friend to all who, struggling and opprcst. 
Strove for a foothold on the stair of fame \ 

Giving clear counsel, with an earnest zest. 

And sorr}- if their struggles brought them blame. 

Oh ! where are words meet to bespeak his praise? 

What language can convey a hint of half the good 
This great heart wrought throughout the measure of its 
days. 

To all the anxious throng of human brotherhood? 



^S /)(rdy\s' (jravc. 

We mourn! lie sinij^s the i;lowiniX anthems, wliere 
Arc ixathcrcd all the L'hrist-erown''d ones. 

Born into a new life radiant, fair, 

Methinks he stands a star amonir (lod's sons. 



Ixihv's Grave. 

ISupiffOsted l>y tiro. I), rrtiiiii'c's rociii, "My Mnlln'i's Ci'avi'."'! 

'y"\\\\ joyous blue birds sino-, 

^ And eroeus flowers have looked abme the sod ; 

The warm south winds do brinjj^ 

A hint of violets, and the L:;olde!i rod. 

But to ni\- heart no joy 

These emblems of a happy time Cio bring — save 
One, and that has allov : 

The flowers so sweet will bloom ow baby's irrave. 

I've felt the plowshare' s Are, 

The burning- tiereeness of a se-^'ned world's seorn ; 
I felt a smothered ire ; 

J-)ut all m\' heart L^-rew temler when she was born. 

1 lield her to my breast. 

And ealled her mine, and thought my love could save ; 
But now she is at rest, 

Beyonil the hillside, in a cheerless grave. 

But when the flowers blow. 

The place shall be so full of fragrant bloom. 
That only I shall knmv 

Thev hide mv preciuis bab\'s little tomb. 

And I shall loi)k above. 

And fancy her amid unfading blossoms sweet ; 
Yet come with tender love. 

And clasp this little mound now lying at my feet. 



''Happy Nciu Tcarr jp 

"llai)py New Year." 

3JS I stood one night, where the sliadows 
^^ Hung over all space like a cloud, 
And the m^-stical hushes of silence 
Enveloped the earth in a shroud. 

My spirit looked up thro' the darkness, 
Where glimmering worlds shone afar, 

And saw, near the portal of glory. 
The bright, sparkling beam of a star. 

A star on the brow of a cherub. 

That shone with a luster so clear, 
I knew, before Father Time told me, 

'Twas the earthward-bound 'Happy New Year." 

As time marked the weird hour of midnight. 
This happ}' New Year floated down, 

And received from the pure hands of morning, 
A scepter, a robe and a crown. 

Then the bells laughed so loud in gladness. 

They startled the hushes of night ; 
While Sorrow forgot half her sadness, 

And Joy went quite wild with delight. 

And many a heart, to the Father, 

Uplifted its earnest voice clear, 
And thanked the Great Author of Mercy 

For the gift of another New Year. 

While the bells rang out wilder than ever. 
And voices sprang glad thro"* the air, 

A tone of most musical sweetness 

I heard, from the height of somewhere. 



6o As Tc Soic. 

Ringing clear, over all the gay tumult 
Of voices, and an\il and bell, 

"The poor always 3'e have with 3-ou ;" 
Be sure and remember it well. 

Forget not the heavily laden. 

Remember the fatherless, too, 
The prisoner, shut in a dungeon. 

And the master will not foro-et you. 

And when all your work here is ended, 
Approach the pearl gates without fear, 

For the angels will give you a welcome, 
A happy, ne'er ending New Year. 



As Yc Sow. 

fpET the silence rest unbroken 

IA\ 'Xwixt thv throbbing heart and mine; 

Waft no message, send no token. 

Let there be no word or sign 
Of those days when hope was living 

In our hearts, warm and forgiving. 

Let the silence rest forever. 

Broken by no mournino tear; 
'Tis the work of earth to sexer 

All the ties that hearts hold dear. 
Life for 3'ou means joy and gladness, 

But for me 'tis toil and sadness. 

Somewhere, in the mystic future. 

In a world to man unknown. 
Where each wretched sin-sick mortal 

Shall for sinfulness atone. 
We shall meet, and meeting know 

Heaven's meaning in the sentence, ''as ye sow." 



Thy Future. 6i 

Thy Future. 

|AY, not ''impossible," for one so kind, 

So true of heart, so noble — yet 
The sun of happiness will find 
A beam for thee, 't will never set. 

If prayer or tears for others' grief 

Could give thee respite from thy pain. 

Then surely thou would' st have relief, 
And never know one pang (again. 

The sun shines clear somewhere for thee, 
No matter how the skies may chill; 

For thee, I know — if not for me — 
There is a happy future still. 

Not "impossible." It cannot be 

That one should thus be left in grief, 

When radiant stands bright destiny 
With wooing smile to give relief. 

Not '' impossible." A prophesy. 

Or something- that akin must be. 
Whispers of future destiny, 

Glad, joyous, prosperous for thee. 

Ah, friend of mine, what can I say? 

So poor are words, so weak, so cold ; 
How like dull dross, do they portray, 

The heart's rich treasury of gold. 

I need not say "be brave;" thou art; 

I need not counsel aught to thee. 
The pain lies hidden in thy heart, 

Where never friend nor foe can see. 

Just this I'll say — and this is vain — 

(Alas ! I would it were not so) ; 
In floods of joy or sorrow's rain. 

Thou hast one true heart's overflow. 



62 A Miracle. 



A Miracle. 

f.^WAS a time when the wind, in a wanton mood, 

^' Low bent bare twigs in the autumn wood, 
And the sun sent dowi|, through the leafless vines, • 
A mournful hint of warmer climes. 

The frost had touched poor nature's face, 
And stoFn away her youthful grace; 
So bare and brown was her withered breast, 
No tiny flower on her heart found rest. 

We idl}' strayed, and our fancy crept 
To the silent spot where the harebells slept ; 
And we almi^st saw, thix)ugh the frozen sod. 
The violets shrink where our footsteps trod. 

No joyous bird to its mate chirped low. 
And there was no sound of the water's flow; 
No music soft, like the lullaby 
The south wind sings when the pine trees ciy. 

So lone and still was the sombre wood. 

That half we feared its solitude. 

It was as when, with 'bated breath. 

We have bent our steps to a scene of death. 

We paused 'neath an oak, so old and gi'im 
That it's ragged sides let the sunshine in, 
As if its heart would in brightness glow, 
Though its beauty went with the long ago. 

And there, clinging close to its shaggy breast, 
A little vine found a place of rest — 
A livi/io- ^■ine with heart-shaped leaves. 
As screen as those o'er our summer ea\"es. 

We smiled, and said we might truly tell 

That we had seen a miracle ; 

And half we fe/f that the little vine. 

With its heart-shaped leaves and lustre fine. 



Regret. 6j 

Had leaped from the earth ia a sportive wav, 
When it heard our steps to the oak tree stra\' ; 
But the ni3'stery of its Hfe and birtli 
Are known to God, and Mother Earth. 

As we walked away from the dismal wood, 
Away from its m}'stic solitude, 
This lesson came like a tender word, 
And all our depths of spirit stirred. 

There is no heart so cold and bare. 
But some sweet blossom nestles there, 
Some virtue bright 'mid its chill decay, 
Some spark of love like the sunshine's ra}-. 



Regret. 



'^ 



1 



T may be the little bird, southward fast Hying, 

Regrets that its song was no sweeter when here ; 
t may be the blossom, when quiv'ring and dying, 
Regrets that its fragrance was less pure and clear. 

t ma}' be the dew-drop, at even, when glowing. 
Regrets that its stay 'mid the flowers is brief; 

t may be the south wind we hear softly blowing, 
A requiem breathes of its sadness and grief. 

t may be the stars, which twinkle so brightly. 
Regret that their light is not like the sun ; 

t ma}- be my heart would beat far more lightly. 
If my own life-tasks more nobly were done. 

And thus, through all life that is fleeting and flowing 
Toward the unknown, called "'eternity's shore," 

It may be a thought makes us sadder for knowing 
This sorrowful thought, I ''might have done more." 



6^ A Wouiau''s j\Ii stake. 

A Woman's Mistake. 

5IFE came one day to me, with earnest voice, 
And said, " Now is the time to make thy choice; 
Wih thou have love without a name, 
Or wear a laurel wreath, dear bought of Fame?'' 

I said — Oh, foolish words! — "Take all the rest. 
Give me the laurel wreath and I am blest. 
The fairest and the best thou hast to bring, 
Love, home and rest, the bridal ring — 

"I gladly yield them all to win a name. 
And feel upon my brow the hand of Fame." 
Awhile Love plead to stay ; I closed my heart . 
He sadly went away, but left a dart. 

M}' paltry little wreath had but one bloom. 

And but one leaf of green ; it withered soon ; 

And there were thorns concealed, which pierced my 

brow. 
I offered all to Love, for just one vow. 

But ah ! m}^ choice was made. Too late ! too late ! 
I sighed for home and love. ]My choice was fate. 
When little children sang I closed my ears, 
And when they smiled, my e3-es were closed b}' tears. 

So, kneeling in the dust, careworn with grief, 
I sadl}' prayed for rest, and for relief. 
The pitying father heard my mournful plea, 
And took the faded wreath away from me, 

And save me in its stead love, home and rest, 
Saying: '■"Of all the world these are the best." 
And now, beside the hearth my children sing, 
And life has brought the best it has to bring. 



Gone. 6^ 



Gone. 

^HE ijolden iiatc of Summer swuni^ 

[(5)) o o o 

^^ On floweiy hinge, and all day 
The birds chirped sadl}', vine leaves clung 
With trembling clasp, to window bay. 

And blooms that mocked the glowing sun, 
While Summer's crown was on her head, 

Bowed down, all withered, one by one — 
Fell from their stems and joined the dead. 

The trees bent close and whispered low, 
In quivering tones, ''the fall is here!" 

And seemed to feel the chilling snow, 
That turns each leaflet brown and sear. 

September, with her royal tread, 

And soro-eous robes of gold and green. 

Swept through the open gate and said — 

^'Behold your queen! behold your queen!" 

She spurned the tender summer grass. 
That seemed to plead for longer stay, 

And all the lawn grew gray, alas ! 
So was the air fraught with decay. 

O, summer fair! O, summer gone! 

How longed my soul with thee to fly ; 
How yearns my heart to clasp its own, 

Where summer glories never die. 



66 Good- Bye. 



Good-Bye. 



I) ARLING, good-bye ! the past is past ; 
A dream so sweet could ne\'er last ; 
A flower so fair must soon decay ; 
Good-bye, good-bye — fore'er and aye. 

Darling, good-b3'e, a tear may fall 
On bier and coffin, shroud and pall ; 
But hope once crushed will never rise, 
Unless to bloom beyond the skies. 

Darlino;, orood-bye ! look back no more, 
Each window bar, close every door ; 
Let no dreams haunt thy waking hours ; 
The past is dead, the future ours. 

Darling, good-bye ! when you pass the spot 
Where our joys were brightest, linger not, 
But go thy way ; seek the merry throng. 
Laugh the lightest laugh, sing the gayest song. 

But do not sing as you sung to me. 
Ere ni}' rapt soul gave its life to thee — 
Sino- wilder songs, with merrier air; 
Let th)' heart be light, and free from care. 

Darling, good-bye ! our idols all 

Must perish, and our altars fall ; 

The heaviest cloud veils a summer da}' — 

Good-b3-e, good-bye — forever and aye. 

Darlino;, o-ood-bve ! fore\'er and ave — 
Bitter words, and hard to say — 
Wild storms will rise, and sad hearts swell ; 
Time conquers all — farewell, farewell. 



A Change. 6y 

A Change. 

["Hearts Kever Break."— Gail HamUton.^ 

^LENDER and lithe as a willow wand, 

I see her now before me stand ; 
Queenly, yet meek, and fair, so fair — 
A hint of o-old dust on her hair. 

Sweet and bright as the rosy dawn 
That lightens up the autumn lawn — 
A winsome, loving, low-voiced maid. 
Of whom no child was e'er afraid. 

She came, our village school to teach — 
This fair, coy girl, so mild of speech; 
Each day she taught a lesson new. 
And, oh ! she learned a lesson, too. 

'Twas whispered that young Harold Vane 
Came oft to school, in shine or rain ; 
'Twas whispered, too, a tender light 
Besan to make Maud's eyes more bright. 

There came a time when Harold Vane 
Did no more come, in shine or rain ; 
He passed no more the school, they say. 
But rode far 'round another way. 

And sweet Maud drooped, but kept her post, 
And friends were sad who loved her most; 
For no 'plaint from her lips e'er came — 
No word of censure, or of blame. 

Yet fast she changed, they scarce knew how; 
There grew a change on lip, o'er brow; 
And a "haughty air, and a firmer walk, 
A louder laugh, more prone to talk. 

No broken heart, how strange, how strange ! 
No broken heart, but fearful change ; 
Men who had seen the pensive brow 
And sighed, said, '^She is stunning now." 



6S Hug- J Dead, 



^ 



The gossips wondered, and old wives said : 
" Much better if the o-irl were dead," 
They called her bold and over free, 
And puzzled o'er her history- . 

An absent friend came back one day, 

A friend who long had been away ; 

She saw this change with look of pain. 

And said, " YouVe heart-broke, dear, for Vane." 

The maiden laughed, then said, '' Not so, 
INIy dear, 'hearts never break,' 3'ou know; 
They do not break; Til tell you why: 
Alas ! they cannot break, the}- die!" 

"How oft at night, when all alone, 
With no cold ear to hear mv moan, 
I've wept the very tear fount dry, 
And smothered many a wild, sad cry." 

"But now my heart lies cold and dead. 
The last tear s dropped I e'er shall shed ; 
Were Harold Vane now pleading there, 
I'd sav : 'Sir, I've no heart to share!'" 



Hugo Dead. 

II^^EAD? No; such great souls never die; 
^^' They pass to higher spheres, they scan a clearer sky ; 
They know the bliss of life above its gloom, and tears; 
They put awa}- — as garments worn — the burden of the 
years. 

M. Hugo has gone home — let human hearts be still; 
Be^-ond the world's cold frown, above its smile so chill, 
He lives, will ever live, in bright illumined rays; 
He lives, unheeding now the dull world's blame or 
praise. 



fc>5 



Pearls i)i the Sea. 6g 

Pearls in the Sea. 

^^(^HERE are pearls in the sea," a maiden said 

^ _ lightly. 

While standing alone on the breaker-washed shore, 
^' There are pearls in the sea! I see them flash brightly, 

Though down in the depths a fathom or more." 

"There are pearls in the sea" — she leaned farther over 
The dangerous cliff, with a bough in her hand — 

''There are pearls in the sea — I will turn rover 

And will gather them up and bring them to land." 

''And then my poor father may cease the hard toiling, 
And mother will kiss me, and cry over me. 

And no more from morn until midnight be moiling — 
When I carry home my rich pearls from the sea." 

"And then when my darling comes I will feign scorning 
Though faithful and true m}- heart will'still be — 

ril sa}', 'a young nobleman comes in the morning 
To claim a fair bride, and the bride will be me.'" 

"And then, when the sadness steals over his features, 
I will fly to his arms and kiss him right free. 

And say, 'Ah, you men are the silliest creatures!' 
Then show him m}- pearls from the depths of the 
sea." 

"There are pearls in the sea, but I must fly home- 
ward. 
There's no time for dreaming with workers like me." 
She sprang — the bough broke — and she swiftly fell 
downward. 
While mermaids and men cried, "a pearl in the sea," 

Now, sometimes — 'tis said — when the wild winds are 
wailing, 

A maid in a pearl-laden boat you may see, 
'Wa}- out on the foam-covered waters swift sailing, 

And singing aloud, "There are pearls in the sea." 



'O 



To Miss (r. y. — J/</j' 



To Miss G. J. 

[[N the fair scnii-tn^pic land. 

There f^ a tree of royal splendor ; 
GrowiniX iip from the eliniiinir sand. 

With rare blossoms, white and tender. 
Few pause to note the lustrous tree. 

Its branehes in the sunliirht irlowinii" ; 
Nor half its beauty ean they see, 

Up in the heights where it is growing. 

And thus oft times a life grows fair. 

And revels in majestie beautv ; 
ReaehiuLT, beyond the sands of eare. 

Up to the gates of love and duty. 
Here few may n(ne how pure and grand. 

And brave, a life may show in growing 
Yet watched it is in other land. 

Bevcmd where silver waves are flowing. 



May. 

AINTY May I 

Why eocuiettiniT in this wa\? 
What will all the people say 
To viHir conduct, pretty May? 

Frowning? Ah. that will not do j 
We expected much of you ; 
Why so cold, so coy, oh May? 
You shoidd laugh and sing to-day 

Naughty May ! 

All the flowers are turning gray ; 
\Vhat is your idea, pray. 
Thus to freeze us in this way? 

Do you kne old winter so. 
That you cannot let him go? 
Winter wooinir Sunny May, 
Is an omen bad. they say. 



Victor Huoo, yi 

Victor IIui^o. 

#LOW pacing by the restless sea, 
Jl) With eyes turned toward his native shore — 
A victim of grim destiny, 

Mocked by the wild waves' ceaseless roar. 

For nineteen 3-ears — long weary years — 
His poet heart, proud, pure, and strong. 

Full of patience, pathos, tears. 

Yearned o'er his nation's bitter wronir. 

Nor did he dream that coming days 

Should give to freedom his loved France ; 

Nor did he think the world would praise 
The page o'er which his pen should glance. 

The bright day dawned, when, o'er the wave. 
The news came ''foes are satisfied." 

A day of grace for fettered sla\e ; 
•"•To Paris!'' then the exile cried. 

"France and freedom." No more sneers, 
To mock the proud soul's patient trust, 

"To Paris!" after nineteen years 
Of exile's heav}-, smoth'ring dust. 

I low mad was France, how more than blind. 
To, exile thus this master mind. 



72 



Farevcell. 

Farewell. 

|S,OR you and me, 
^^ The time has come 
• To say farewell ; 

You do not speak — 

Your lips are dumb — 

Break not the spell. 



Regrets are o'er, 
We stand apart. 

Time passes b}' 

With steady tread ; 

He rules the heart — 
I do not sio^h. 



I see bright hope 

Along the 3-ears 
For you and me ; 

Life's broadening view, 
No time for tears, 

'Tis past, you see. 



5' 



My skies are fair. 

As 3'ours may be, 
When 3-ears speed on ; 
Some hopes will fail- 
That' s destiny — 

And aee will come. 



"& 



So let us speak 

Our brief farewell. 
And cro our way : 

Never to meet. 
Nothing to tell. 

No more to sa3'. 



Not Well. ys 

As silent as the 

Dead who sleep 
Low in the grave, 

Are they who seek 
Forgetfulness ** 

Neath Lethe's wave. » 

True friendship is 

A holy thing; 
A sacred spell ; 

How worthy was ; 

Your offering, 

Let vour heart tell. 

I know not why 

You won my heart ; 
The dream is o'er, 

And now, in silent 
Peace, we part ,, 

Forever more. 



Not Well. 

t is not well to drift idly — no! 

Life's fathomless stream, in its silent tiow, 
May carry us down, from the hills of light. 
Into a dark and treacherous night. 

It is not well to work illy — no! 
The life we live and the seeds w^e sow 
Will bring us a harvest, soon or late, 
Of peace, or pain, of love or hate. 

It is not well to wish evil — no! 

Not to our most implacable foe ; 

For the wheels of time, in their rapid Bight, 

Will punish the evil, reward the right. 

While nearing us fast comes eternity's night. 

And justice is sure, though slow. 



y^ A Boquef . 

A BoLUJLlCt. 

.Ijj^jINKS and pansies and fiischias. 



Rare oleanders sweet, 
Makinir a combination 

Of fragrance most complete ; 
And telling a little story 

Of friendship, pure and true, 
This is the grateful message, 

Received, dear one, from you. 

How the ladies almost envied, 

And how my heart throbbed fast, 
And how the feast suspended, 

As the flowers around were passed- 
Are things I can not tell you, 

But this, in truth, I say, 
There was no gladder woman 

'Mid all those ladies gay. 

Ah, friend, such little tokens 

Are \ery dear to those 
Who feel the weight of sorrow, 

And face unnumbered foes. 
And now a little secret 

ril whisper, and 'tis true, 
No one gives me flowers, 

}\Ton ami, none but you. 



(ihosfs. 1^ 

Ghosts. 



jj^O you care for stories worn and old, 
^ Such as men tell when nights are cold, 
And they sit sipping the wine's red flood 
To stir their hearts with a warmer blood? 

Stories of love, and trust, and death ; 
Of strangled gasps of a woman's breath ; 
Of shroudless corpse unburied, yet dead 
As fallen leaves, 'neath careless tread. 

Stories of woman's undying faith ; 
Of her pulseless heart, and her wretched wraith, 
Of her hopes all trampled and faith quite crushed ; 
Of frhostlv tones with drear notes hushed. 

There are ghosts of womanhood now — they tell — 
Walking between this world, and — well! 
In mansion and cottage these ghosts are met. 
With faces frozen by chill regret. 

They smile and drink of the purple wine, 

Of shroud and cotiin there is no sign ; 

They laugh, but their eyes have no bright glow, 

They walk with stateliness, solemn and slow. 

Who was your murderer.-^ (ghosts arc dumb) 
You question, and wait, but the busy hum 
Of a hundred voices, make reply : 
*• What can a poor ghost do but sigh.^'" 

And so these wraiths go wandering on, 
A moment seen, another gone; 
They ever walk in their ciiill despair. 
These irhosts of women are everywhere. 



.-)' 



j6 yohn y an soil's Way. 

John Janson's Way. 

|A Christmas Story.J 

JOHN JANSON was a man of wealth. 
Of ample means and perfect health ; 
Yet grudging — so his neighbors said — 
The poor, he knew, a loaf of bread. 

John Janson once was poor, 'tis true. 
But many jears had passed from view 
Since he must toil to win a share 
Of what Dame Fortune had to spare. 

John Janson long had ceased to care 
Whether the days were dark or fair ; 
For he had money, home, and all 
The blessings which to man befall. 

But he was proud, and hard, and cold, 
Moreover, he was growing old ; 
And thin his locks were, and as white 
As autumn frosts on chill}- night. 

John- Janson had a palace home, 
Through which no wintery blasts could roam, 
And blazing fires were burning bright, 
The eve before one Christmas night. 

In gown and slippers there sat he, 
Contented as a man could be. 
His daughter hummed a pretty tune. 
And he was listening to its rune, 

When sharp upon the parlor door 
There came a rap, and then before 
A soul could answer, or could see, 
A man said: "Janson, come with me.'" 



yohn y.Xjiso:rs Way. jj 



John Janson did not like to go. 
And so with movements cahii, and slow, 
He donned his coat and hat, for he 
Could not resist that "Come with me!" 

Out in the cold, bleak, stormy night 
They passed, and John, alarmed, was quite 
Chilled to the bone 'ere he could ask: 
"Stranger, wh}' this toilsome task?" 

The man walked on, nor turned his head ; 
John Janson followed him ii dread 
Way out be3'ond the joyous glow 
Of city lamps. And then more slow 

The stranger walked, till on the air 
Came tremblingly a feeble prayer. 
"Stop, ".said the man; "Now, listen well. 
That prayer will all the story tell:" 

"My Father, thou who hear'st the cry 
Of ravens, ere they starve and die. 
Hear me, and help us in our need- 
John Janson's heart began to bleed. 



?? 



"Oh, help us!" still the pleading cry 
"Father, help us, or we die." 
The sobbing voice crept thro' the air, 
Close to John Janson, standing there. 



"Now," said the stranger, "come and see 

This sad abode of misery." 

Silently, they passed within. 

And saw, by the mystic glimmer dim, 

A woman, crouched beside a chair. 
While on a pallet nestled there. 
Two little children, who oft' sighed. 
And in their slumbers, weaklv, cried. 



yS '^fohn yauson^s Way. 

Wan, pinclied and blue, their features wore 

Such piteous look as ne'er before 

Had fanson seen on human face. 

Of food, ox tire, there were no trace. 

"Three days, alas!" the stranger said, 
" Has this sick mother lacked the bread 
To still the plaintive, begcring eries 
Of these stray babes, from paradise." 

"Three days! While vou have much to spare; 
Why do you not your bounty share 
With those who, from extremest need. 
Must weep, and moan, and praying plead.'*'"" 

John janson, cried: "1 will, 1 will !"*' 
"W^hat!'' said his daughter, " dreaming still.'* 
Whv, papa, you have been asleep. 
And I was tr^'ing still to keep. 

So that vou miirht vet slumber on.'"" 
'^ I now am wide awake," quoth John. 
"■So daughter bring mv coat, and hat, 
And rubbers from the hallway mat." 

''Why, papa, hear how wild the wind !" 
"Yes, yes, 1 hear, and do not mind. 
For there are those in need, I fear; 
So seek not to detain me, dear." 

Away into the murk and gloom 
Went this old man. The dusk — a tomb — 
Closed round him, as he passed the ray 
FnMii his own lamp, and hied awav. 

Down to the citv hurried he. 

And sought the man of Charity, 

And asked of him — who knew, I'm sure — 

If they were needing aid for poor. 



yohn yansoii's Way. yg 

"Ah, yes," the worthy mayor said, 
With solemn smile and shakin<^ head : 
"There is a widow living near, 
vSick, desolate, and in want, T fear.'' 

"Well, here is gold," John Janson saicj ; 
"No woman should implore for bread 
When men of wealth liave mueh in store — 
When this is gone, apply for more." 

The mayor, with astonishment. 
Counted the sum so kindly lent, 
And said, with moisture in his eyes, 
"This is, indeed, a great surprise." 

For he had given them that night 
A hundred dollars, clean and bright. 
'T will make hearts glad," the mayorsaid, 
"But Janson must have lost his head." 

John Janson lived to good old age, 
And his kind deeds would fill a page, 
And all the poor on Christmas day 
Say, " (living was John Janson's way." 




m 



f() Von Weher. 



Von Wcbcr. 

Written •>>' rciiiii'st "f I'l'nt. J. M. Cl\;iiice. Hiirt rcurt ul the BroadwMV Sciniiiary by 

Mns. Dr. Miller.j 

HEN Genius lives in an^- state, 
♦Wo homage pa}-. The good are great, 
The great are good, we thus desciy. 
The iiood and srreat can never die. 

Weber was born on HoUand's shore 
A. century ago ; his lore 
Lives in the liearts of singers still, 
Closely enshrined, and ever will. 

Von Weber! may thy *'Oberon" 
^nd *"■ Fricschutz " go ringing on 
Down tlirough the lab3rinth of years. 
Baptised with sympatlietic tears. 

'Tis well thy natal day to mark ; 
Some angel, bending low, may hark 
And hear th}' praises told again 
Among assembled scores of men. 

Ah, did'st tliou guess in tliat dark hour 
Wnien thou did'st feel Azrael's power, 
M^hat down the asfes should be heard 
The music which th}' heart had stirred? 

Or did'st thou think, when quite alone. 
Thou did'st receive the call, '''Come home," 
That all the melody so sweet. 
Born in thy soul, would live complete.^ 

Von Weber! ne'er while flowers blow 
And wild-birds sing and waters flow. 
Wilt thou forgotten be. Thy birth 
Foretold twin spirits — work and worth. 



Five Tears. 8/ 

Five Years. 

i'^HE sentence passed, and low he bent 
"^ His i^rizzled head, while grim despair 
Crept like a demon shadow sent. 
O'er his face and rested there. 

Fi\e years ! such long and weary while 
To be immured by dungeon wall. 

To toil in silence, ne'er to smile, 
Not once to hear a loved voice call. 

The crime was great — he forged a name ! 

T T • • • 

His wife and daughter were in need, 
And now, bowed down with guilt and shame, 
He pays great penalty indeed. 

Who can be glad to note the pain 

The wretched feel when on their hands, 

Firm fastened, with a heavy chain, 
• Are fettered, strongl}', iron-bands? 

What monster has a heart so cold 

He can rejoice at such a sight? 
A brother fettered, gray and old. 

Dragged away to prison night. 

There is a bar where justice keeps 

Eternally a quiet ward ; 
And though all human judgment sleeps. 

We answer some time to the Lord. 

Judge not, oh man in wickedness ! 

Thy sins are like the robe of death ; 
jNIock not thy brother in distress, 

God holds the measure of thy breath. 

Yea, holds the me^isure, and doth know 
How vain and weak a thing thou art; 

Be pitiful toward human woe. 

Let mercy touch thy selfish heart. 



* 

1 rat^cdy. 

^^ Rjj01\Cn\'l^ mc !" she plead — he answcrcil, with 
scorn — 

His IkmiI was as cold and hard as the dead: 
"You ha\c j")hicked tiie rose, now pierced by its thorn, 

^^nI conie and ask me for pardon.'" lie said. 

And he walked away, in the twilight chill. 
While she, in her ai;-ony, there stood still. 
And as she stood there in the wanin<;" light. 

Sorrowful, weeping, so sadlv alone, 
A dark demon came on the wings of night. 

And breathed on her heart, "till it turneil to stone. 
And her eyes grew dry, as her heart grew cold. 
And his image slipped from its tender fold. 

" b\)rgive, oh. forgive mc ! and love me again," 
The woman looked back with an eye of scorn ; 

""Twas his voice now, full of passionate pain. 
And his voice, si)rrowful, sad and forlorn. 

Anil she, in a Unv tone, answcrcil him then, 

" Mercv 1 will lea\ c to the hearts oi men. 



' ? 



Then she turned awaN like a wrathful sprite, 
While he was left in the gathering gloom ; 

And he watchetl her j^ass fiom his vision quite; 
And he reail in her tirm, j'>rouel walk his tloom, 

Ami while he stood sorrowful there ami wept, 

A demon awoke, which long \ears had slept. 

And he crept along in the twilight's glow. 

There was nothing near but this demon bold ; 

And close to the path a dark river's flow', 
AVith never a wilUnv to catch and hold. 

A sudden push ! a K)ud cry ! and then — 

The man and the demon vanished airain. 



. / Threnody. Sj 

From out the cold waves they hfted her face, 
While every one wondered why this should be ! 

Of violence? no! there was not a trace; 
** Self-murder," coroner and jury a<]:ree. 

The man and the demon stood by and wept 

O'er the woman dead, and their secret kept. 



A Ihrcnocly. 



^E fret out our earthly existence, 
We sigh for the gold of a star ; 
We stand and gaze upward, lamentiuLT, 
Because fairer worlds gleam afar. 

We know not the way we are going, 
And fain would turn back if we could ; 

Vet Time drags us on unrelenting, 
Throu^rh mazes we ne'er understood. 

Not a step will the grim future show us, 
We walk in the dark — oft afraid — 

What is there above and below us. 
Beyond the dread coffin and spade? 

The years, who can chain, who can count them, 
As they stretch out their length in the gloom? 

We know that if few, or if many. 
They end in the dusk of the tomb. 

And yet we fight many a battle. 

For place, recogniticjn and power, 
Forgetting the death which can stifle 

Our clamoring cry any hour. 

How poor are the honors we covet, 

How foolish our wailing lament; 
This world, with the bright stars above it, 

Hath ne'er brought one sad soul content. 



S4 A Rebuke. 

A Rebuke. 



II 



SAT where the shadows were fallirii;-. 

My bowed head low on my hand, 
And heard a wild bird softly calling 
His mate, from the shadowy land. 

From the depth of the dim old woodland, 
Where slumbering shades lay deep. 

And wnnds on the boughs of the pine trees 
Were rocking themselves to sleep. 

His call had a sound of sadness, 
A sorrow half breathed into words, 

As if there could never be gladness 
Again in the kingdom of birds. 

M}' soul — without raising its eyelids, 
Low answered the lone bird's cr}', 

'Till all the winds in the wildwoods 
Awoke, with a sorrowful siirh. 

And moaned a response, as in pity 
For me, and the desolate bird, 

'Till each green leaf on the tree tops 
Sent downward a piteous word. 

There was sadness over the woodland. 
The song of the bird was hushed ; 

My soul glancing up to the Master, 
Remembered His words antl blushed. 

Thought of the sorrow of Jesus, who 

Comforted hearts, 'till tlie last 
Agonized hour of the Death scene. 

With darkness, veiled vision, had passed. 



yi Lesson. 8^ 

While I had sobbed out to the forest, 

My desolate, woeful cr}^. 
Until 1 had made all the dim woods 

Send back an answerinir si<xh. 

But now, with shame mantled features. 

My soul sang a gong to the bird ; 
'Till the leaves ci'en in the shadows, 

With soft thrills of rapture were stirred. 

The birds joining all-in a chorus: 

"We'll comfort the hearts that are sad, 

Hide all our woes, and endeavor 
To make the disconsolate glad." 




A Lesson. 

Y heart was heavy, and m^^ eye-lids 
Moist with bitter tears, 
As I looked with hopeless vision 

Toward the coming ^ears ; 
Looked, and saw but gloom and shadow, 

Drifting off into the night; 
Thus seeing, cried with voiceless anguish : 

"Make my pathway bright." 



Cried again, my spirit saying. 

With the boldness of despair, 
"These pressing, heavy burdens, 

Are too great for me to bear!" 
Just as my cry grew loud and wilder, 

O'er my spirit's din 
.1 heard a voice of rapture singing 

This sweet evening hymn : 



86 A Lesson. 

''O, the earth is often gloomy, 

But yonder shines the sun, 
And I must need these heavy burdens, 

Let Thy will be done. 
I must not murmur, though dark shadows 

Reach unto the tomb ; 
M)/ Father's hand will lead me safely 

Throuo-h the midnis^ht trjoom.'"' 

How quickly Shame, her crimson mantle 

Wrapped about my head ; 
Ah ! that singer was a ;A'anderer, 

Needing home and bread ; 
A beggar, with no shelter, 

Craving alms an hour before, 
Humbly bearing to the wayside 

Crumbs found at my door. 

I knew. Oh, God forgive me, 

That this stranger, poor and old, 
Before he laid him down to slumber, 

On the earth so cold. 
Had faith to sing, in tones of rapture. 

That sweet, sacred song, 
While my weak spirit brooded darkly, 

O'er a triflinir wroner. 



'*=<• 



Then I said: "This wayside beggar 

Has given alms to me. 
Holy alms of Faith and Patience, 

Lasting as eternity.'' 



Ilia nks^ivi fig: Sy 

1 hankso'ivino". 

IN those sad, fearful, yet heroic clays, 

'^ When minute men sung solemn songs of praise, 

And gathered close around the cabin tire, 

The clear ones saved, as yet, from savage ire; 

When strong, full bearded men, of tender guise, 

Watched Liberty — a child — with tearful e3'es, 

And prayed the Father, with half bated breath, 

"O! give me liberty or give me death.'' 

W^hen to the church they crept with foot-fall still, 

To worship, and give thanks for fruit of mill. 

For life and health, and strength of heart and soul, 

And all the minor blessings that comprise the whole. 

Those were the days when heroism meant more 

Than a mere flight of rhetoricians roar ; 

Those were the days when the rite of sacrifice 

Meant loss of comfort — aye, and loss of life. 

When little children, and their mothers — pure — 

Were oft' found slaughtered at the cabin door. 

Then heaps of earth — unmarked — meant graves ; 

Yet less than this meant land of fettered slaves. 

Oh ! those were times when God was recognized ; 

Oh ! those were days when liberty was prized ; 

And men gave thanks, and prayed, and wept. 

In forests, dark, through which fierce wnld things crept. 

From out this direful suffering and woe. 

This furnace fiame of red and awful glow. 

There came bright happy days at last, and free 

The sacred stars and stripes of liberty 

Waved out in beauty o'er a peace-crowned land. 

And homes of love sprang up on every hand. 

Then staunch New England, with her war-scar'd face, 

Gathered the scattered children of a sturdy race. 

And 'round the festive board gave thanks to Him 

Who led their fathers through the forests dim. 

And gave their fathers victory, and they 

The right to wreath their brows with freedom's bay. 

Then clear the hearth-stone blaze leapt up ; 



Then wliiU' llu- toani ol" ciilor on oacli cup; 
Thon ^dUIcii brown tlie turkej's on the board ; 
Anil lauLilitcM- i;ay witli tlu- rcil hcarth-lirc roared. 
And all wcro care-free, liapjiy, as if blood 
Had nc\cr stained the soil with crimson flood. 
Men o\[' l'or<;et ln)w nuieli they owe to (lod. 
Who in this latter ilay march o'er the sod, 
lilooil-hallowed In the tiile of butchered men, 
lu-»ri;et to j">iay, «;ive thanks, forget as when 
Helsha/./ar feasted, riotini:; until 

'The wiitinii" smote him mute, anil white and chill. 
W'e are the children ot those nundered sires. 
Who ot't' met death b^• lonely forest lircs — 
Slain, as {\\c\ snatched a moment for repose 
On blankets white with falling winter snows. 
We are the children of the men who dieil 
Vov b'recdom, and fair Libert\-, his bride. 
And so we'll i;'i\ i' full earnest praise tt>-day, 
;\nil thank the Loid in the old prayerful wa\'. 
With soni;s of melody, clear, lin^iui;- sweet. 
For showers of blessings free ar.tl complete. 
And men' will ^ive a toast, and it will be: 
"America! l>lest land of Liberty." 



V 



( \icis. 

■X)Rld)-WKARY wanderer o'er desert lands, 
"^ SeekiuL:; relief from the deep, driftinir sands. 
There is a sweet spot with cool shadows blest, 
A jtlace where Ciod promises tii'cd hearts rest. 

Sad stilled souls, in \our bonda^v of sin. 
Drearily toiling' amid the world's diii. 
List to the words of sorrow's sad iruest : 
"Come to me weai"\- ones — I'll '^■i\e nou rest." 

l>reakini;- hearts, groaning 'neath loads of suchT^care, 
As onK- the hearts of the desolate bear, 
lie heai-s every siiih from your iioor throbbiuir breast. 
And calls in his intii\ite love: "Come and rest!" 



/ 



So/NC J)ciy. 8g 

Sonic Day. 

*^0]\IE day my task will all be clone, 

jNI}.' toil-worn i:;arments put aside. 
For me the last sweet time the sun 

Adown the western sky will glide. 

Some da\' the birds, I love so well. 
Will tune their notes for other ears ; 

My violets in the shad}' dell 

Will bloom for others, years and years. 

Bud and blossom, fade and die. 

Put forth their tiny leaf in Spring-. 

Smile just as bri<^htly as when 1 
Was here to note their irlisteninir. 

Hut you, dear love, will sadly stand 
Beside ni}' bier and grieve for me ; 

For one brief moment hold my hand, 
And moan for human s^'mpathy. 

Then go away and hide your wDe 
As best you ean — (jod helping you ; 

While in my very gra\e Til know 

Your life is brave, and just, and true. 

Your love had made my life so sweet; 

So tender, and so kind you've been, 
I'd rather stay near ^ou than greet 

A host of eharmi ng cherubim. 

Yet we, some day — ah ! who can tell 
How near or far the day may be? 

W^ith saddened hearts, must sav farewell 
On the border of Eternity. 



go A Portrait. 

A Portrait. 

lliiscrlbctl to Mrs. (i. S. Med., of St. I.oiiis.l 

iQME artist, bring ytnir palette. 

And eolors rieh, and rare. 
And let me paint the portrait 

Of one so wondrous fair, 
Tliat you will pause, astonished, 

And dumb with glad surprise, 
As from the dim, cold canvas, 

Shine out her hazel eyes. 

Please stand close here, beside me. 

And watch this pleasing task, 
And while I work Til answer 

The questions you ma}- ask ; 
And I will tell }'0u truly 

About this lady fair. 
With eyes of hazel lustre, 

And coils of red-brown hair. 

Now mix for her complexion 

The soft tints, pure and white ; 
And for her hair, dusk shadows. 

Half hidden from the light; 
And for her lips the ruby. 

Like rare, old Spanish wine, 
And nest' ling there within them. 

Let pearl teeth, gleaming, shine. 

Oh, watch me, while I perfect 

This form of masfic iirace ; 
To match the o^•al features 

Of this most matchless face ; 
And tell me, have you e^'er 

Such rare perfection seen? 
You have not ! a3'e, I knew it. 

Nor will you oft', I ween. 



Synrpaf/iy. gi 

You may journey o'er the eountry 

A thousand leagues or more ; 
Or sail the broad, deep oeean. 

From east to western shore, 
And you will uieet few women 

So graeious, and so sweet. 
As this portrait, on the eanvas, 

Now finished and eomplete. 



Sympath}\ 

f~ OUR words so grieve me that my spirit weeps ; 
_ I know you suffer, for I feel your pain ; 
There is no vigil that your sad heart keeps, 
But comes in dreams to haunt my soul again. 



/"* ' 



You live 3-our lonely life, yet long to die 
The future has no terror like your pain. 

Yet Death, so merciless, would fly 

If you should seek the stormy battle plain. 

You know the death that reaches but the heart, 
And leaves the bod}- in unburied gloom. 

Hearts joined by hne, then coldly wrenched apart, 
Like dust and ashes lie, within a tomb. 

Believe me, friend, I know your sorrow well ; 

Yet can not say one word to give you rest. 
For you, goes ringing on, i\x\ endless knell, 

And Peace seems gone, for ave. from \our sad breast. 



^2 Which. — The Shado~,-:cd Way. 

Whicli. 

f, MUCH is sweetest, who can tell, 
W Lily bud or lily bell? 
Snow^-white rose or crimson one, 
Indoor plant or kissed by sun. 

Which the sweetest, who can tell. 
Fair haired maid or dark haired belle? 
City bred, or kissed by sun? 
Girls are angels — every one. 

Dark or light, in sun or shower. 
Blooming bright, I choose the flower 
That shefls the richest fragrance here. 
And blooms right free, our hearts to cheer 

Dark or light, the girl give me. 
Scorn inir wiles of vanity ; 
Loving Honor, Virtue, Truth, 
Guerdons bright of Love and Youth. 



The Shadowed W aw 



j^ATHER, forgive past murmurings ! 

Forgi\e the sad tears anguished flow ; 
Forgive the strivin<r task which brinies 
Only a harvest time of woe. 

What are we that we dare isk 
A respite from one care or pain? 

Exoneration from one task. 

One cold look less, or word (^f blame? 

If dazzling sunshine be not best. . 

Should we, i 1 anger, cease to pray? 
We plead not for the sluggard's rest, 

But for iri"iice to walk the shadowed way 



After I lie SJr,vjcr. gj 

The shadowed path is best for me ; 

Let others have the sunlight clear. 
Author of Love, I cast my heart on Thee, 

And walk in shadow without fear. 



After the Shower. 

niE sobbinn: wind with a moanin<r sio:h, 
^' Had crept to the blue black morning sky, 
And left its tears in gleaming pearls, 
On maple leaves and grape-vine curls. 

When some one came to a summer bower. 
Fairer than pearl, sweeter than flowx^r ; 

With a sunbeam caught in her silken hair, 
And the violet's tint in her eyes so rare. 

With a graceful step, so light and free. 
And e}^s that shone with love for me, 

She came like some resplendent queen. 
In the m^^stic light of a rainbow's sheen. 

A song-bird came from its leaf}- rest. 

And brought from its store of song, the best 

And sweetest notes ear ever heard 
From tuneful throat of a tropic bird. 

O, happy bird ! rare, fragrant flowers, 
O, wondrous sky ! dear, happy hours ; 

O, sweet first grace of womanhood ! 
O, Love's divine beatitude. 

O, Life ! with thy wealth of mysteries. 
Tell me w^hat potent charm there is, 

Like that which beams from a maiden's eyes, 
W^hen first she knows love's sweet surprise. 



g4 Musir. 

Music. 

jI^nQW I I<)\e music, the carol of birds 

\@ Floats to the car like Love's whispered words, 

And breaks on the air like far away swell. 

Of marria«;-e rites told in- tlie chiming bell. 

There is melody soft in hum of bees. 
Fluttering in groups o'er blossom bent trees; 
Music like this lulls the soul to such rest, 
As must be known in tlic land of the blest. 

A m^'stic and wondrous song has the sea. 
When it smiles in calm, and kisses the lea; 
'Tis said this music is sometimes so sweet. 
That it lures to depths the souls of a Hcet. 

How rythmic yet satl, the music I hear 

From the maples, when the lea\es ha\e grown sere ; 

They sing with a sob, a sorrowful sigh, ^ 

T ill broken, and wither'd, they shudder and die. 

Soothingly sweet is the song of the rain ; 
It croons at midnight and taps on the pane, 
And whispers of rest on the ever-bright shore. 
Where sadness comes not, and tears are no more. 

Have N'ou not heard the wild songs of the night. 
Near wind-haunted woods, in waning twilight? 
Music comes soft from the leaves of the pine. 
In rythm more perfect, more tender than rhyme. 

The songs of forest, of bee, and of bird. 
The flow of waters my soul has oft' stirred, 
IVIore priceless, more precious, such music to me, 
Than symphonies grand of best harmony. 



The Old Slory. — Be Brave^ Firm and True, yj 

The Old Story. 



^N diz/.y heights of immort.'il song, 
^^ A singer stood, with thin loeks hoary, 
And toiiehed his harp, the whole day long 
And sung that olden sacred stor}-. 



The western sky to the earth bent low. 
And sunset donned her rich robes golden, 

And sent a smile o'er the earth aglow. 
While low he sung that story olden. 

And as he sung his face grew white. 

Death siczed the man, but the song immortal 

Soared awa^- on the swift wings of light. 
Until it entered Eden's portal. 

The music rolled on the western breeze, 

And northern winds on pure lips caught it, 

And sent it through Palmetto trees, 

'Till sweet south air, to north gale brought it. 

And then caught up by seraphic tongue. 
To mortal ear it came from glory ; 

'Till from the lips of old, and young. 
Is heard the notes of that sweet story. 



Be Brave, Firm and True. 

^^NEEL to the world and 'twill crush you j 
^li^^ Cringe and the tyrant will rave ; 
Pra\-, 'twill remorselessly hush 3-au ; 
Face and def>' it — be bra\e. 

Be tirm in each righteous endea\'or. 

Let your light free and fearlessl}' burn ; 

** Unstable as water" forever, 

You naught can accomplish — be Inin. 



g6 A^ fhc Birds Srng'. 

There is nothing- hke Truth — 'tis immortal- 
A spirit from God sent to you, 

To guide you to Eden's blest portal ; 
Then always be honest and true. 



As the Birds Sinij. 

[luscril.ed to Mrs. E. C. More, of Oolmnbia, Mo.] 

/HE opened her lips, and the music came gushing 
In ecstatic melody, soothing and sweet. 
Like some purling rill, down the mountain side rushing, 
And pausing to rest near a traveler's feet. 

She sings as the birds sing ! just like a linnet, 
Or oriole fresh from the sweet scented limes ; 

Then changing the notes, in space of a minute, 
She brings breath of spice, from the Orient climes. 

To hear her is heaven, or something near to it. 
None can express music's language more near; 

Many will try — ah ! can the}- do it? 

In measure so perfect, in rich tones so clear? 

Wh}^ does she sing so? 'Tis because she so loves it; 

This is the reason she 2;ave to a friend ; 
She lifts her voice up from the earth, far above it, 

And with it the souls of her hearers ascend. 

She is cornel}' and fair, as good as her singing; 

This is great praise, those who know her confess; 
She comes like the sunshine, glad melody bringing; 

And all love her music, 'tis like a caress. 



Lines. 



97 



L 



ines. 



[Written on the death <>r Nellie Field, and respectfully inscribed to her parents, Mr. 
and ]\Irs. Henry Y. Field, of I'ettis eounty. i 

"^I^OUR golden-haired daughter has left 3-011, 
(^ Your hearts with anguish are chill, 
Since death has sadly bereft you, 

And left 3-our home lonel}' and still. 

Your bright, loving Nellie, 3-our treasure. 
No -words, though sadder than tears, 

Could half of your loneliness measure, 
Throuo-h the disconsolate years. 



o 



Just budding to womanhood's glor3-. 

In sweetness like a flower. 
Death closed the fair page, and the stor3' 

Of Hope, was gone in an hour. 

I can bring no words of compassion. 
To ease 3-our pain, 3-et m3' heart 

Aches for 3-ou, and tries still to fashion, 
Some word to heal sorrow's smart. 

» 

There's a path leading up from the river, 

Awa3- on the other shore ; 
And those who walk there feel no quiver 

Of earth's heavy pain no more. 

In that peace, in that ]03-, dwells 30ur darling, 

Waiting and watching for 3-ou ; 
Above where all wild storms are snarling, 

Dwells she, with the pure and true. 

And there very soon will 3'ou meet her, 
j^ Life's tide sweeps onward so fast ; 

And there will 3-ou joyfulh' greet her. 
All troubles over and past. 



^S A/eniorY 



M 



cniorw 



JOMl-yriMES when sittin<i- in the dusk alone, 
A \isi()n eonies to nie of other years. 
Conies softly ti) jiiy heart and makes a moan 
So sornnvful. ni\ t^\es respond with tears. 

^Ienior\' brings to-nij^'lu a j"»iv.'ture, framed. 
And plaees it so that n\\ weeping" eyes 

Rest o\\ it. Time has this jtieture little maimed. 
And it is fair enou»;h to eause surprise. 

A u,'r<-"it old farm-house, \erv brown and urini. 
Knowing the rust t)ne-half a eer.tui"\' brings. 

And Kioking like some eastle, grax and dim. 
Of whieh the dreaming poet often sings. 

About the ojHMi eourt three ehildren pla\-. 

Ami onc^ is meri'ier than the r(?st ; 
The twilight hokls the ereseeiU uuhmi at ba\ , 

With sniik's to see the jox' in this honu^ nest. 

Some sturdy apple trees, huge, long-armed things. 
The grandsire planted years and \ears before. 

Have theii- own games, of fragrant blossom tiinys. 
With gently wa\ing boughs, close to the door. 

An old fashitMied well-sweep, with bueket hunir 
Ky a elanking ehain. hides beneath an elm. 

So tall, its long, lithe, graeeful br<inehes flung. 
Might almost seem to toueh another realm. 

And tlu" old barn, so full oi m\ster\- 

To ehildish brain, '['he j^laee to liide awaw 

And poiuler oxer earth's strange histt>rv, 
\Vhen \xear\- o\ work, er wear\' oi plaw 

Those seenes are past ! And still memor\" elinirs 
With viec-like grasp to that sweet oldeii time; 

Ami manv sueh familiar pieture brings. 

And with the painting, some imperfeet rhyme. 



1 Icr PnKlu'al. 

fl LOVING motlier, bluc-eycd and fair, 
' Stood where trailing!; \ines hiinu; low. 
With sunbeams touchin<^ her siKer liair, 
Her saint-in<:e faee in a liappy glow. 

In her hand she held sonic quaint deviee 
For holding plants she loved so well ; 

And she asked: "Do you not think them niee? 
They were sent by one who loves me well." 

''They were a gift on my natal day, 
i'recious gift from a wandering one; 

Perhaps, sometimes \ou ha\e heard me say 
Something about m^- prodigal son."" 

"I have one, out in tlie world alone, 
liattling with eare, surrounded by sin, 

I know the leather wmII bring him home 
To the shephercFs fold, and let him in.'' 

There is no faith like a mother's faith. 
No care like a mother's watehfiil c-are ; 

There is no hope like her steadfast hope. 

Nor mountain of sin unmo\ed b}' her })rayei-. 

O! the trust in Iier faee that shone; 

The beaming light in her sweet, blue eyes. 
As she said: "The Father will bring him home 

vSafe, to the mansions abo\ e the skies.'' 



100 Pifi'f/no'. 

Parting-. 

^^|0iO not g-o'/' A\'hy do you say it? 
^ What do 3-011 care, if yea or na^•? 
In stopping here where is tlie merit? 
Why notice, if I go or stay? 

INI}' hfe and thine, hke lands assunder, 
And parted wide* b}' oceans deep. 

Can never toiicli, and so I wonder 
Wliich most shall hopeless \igil keep. 

Which most will look across the chasm. 
With long-ino- eves and aching- heart? 

Which most will feel the tempest driven. 
That sweeps our frail life boat apart? 

I ''promised?" Xay, no word was spoken, 
That gave one hint of thv request. 

When human hearts are torn, and broken. 
They seek — 'neath other skies for rest. 

And so I go awa^• in sorrow. 

Or staying weep — 'tis just the same — 

The dreary dawn of each to-morrow. 
Falls with the burdens of its blame. 

The sea rolls restless ; often beating 
In wildest frenzv on the sands ; 

Yea, beats and breaks, and then retreating, 
I'rets 'gainst the rocks of other lands. 

I go away — perhaps forever I 

\M-iat hand can check the force of fate? 
Life's broken chain is mended .never. 

If early severed — or if late. 

I haNc one wish, 'tis this — forget me I 

Or thinking, sav : "Mv friend is dead I" 

And as a loni^- dead friend, rcirret me. 

Though tinie marks c^•cles 'round ni}- head. 



Mary and JMarfha. loi 

Mary and Martha. 



,^HERE floats through my mind the vision of a 

maiden, young and fair, 
With beauteous brow and feature, and a veil of golden 

hair ; 
It hides her graeeful shoulders, and nestles lo\ingly 

there. 
Mantling white neek, and a bosom, "'half hidden and 

lialf bare/' 



A rare and wondrous maiden, with eyes of a/ure hue, 
The liquid depths within them more bright than sun 

kissed dew. 
Her robes were pure w'hite, and erimson, pale shining 

gold and blue — 
A learned and irifted maiden in all that was iirand and 

true. 



With pearls in her hair, a necklace the rarest that men 

could find ; 
Yet far richer gems, and better, were stored in her 

modest mind. 
There at the feet of the Master — before he had rested 

or dined — 
She drank the low, sweet, murmuring tones of the 

Savior of mankind. 



Martha, s;) busv and tired, worried with household care. 
Thought it a shame that her sister should loiter idly 

there ; 
And she thought her own hard trials were more than 

she could bear. 
So she would speak to the ^Master, for he could judge 

her fair. 



102 I )ii2ratihid\ 



^ 



Tlu" deep, milil ulaiuv ol" tlio vS;i\ ic^r dwelt o\-\ the twain 
bcfotv liini ; 

On IMartha, so scUum- ami staloK , a tiitlc ilark ami irrini. 

On MaiA, as bright and sparklinii" as siniio sweet 
eherubini. 

And Knin*;" woids ot wisiloni wete heaid in the twi- 
light dim : 

'* ^^nl ha\e ser\ ed me well, good ^laitlia, be nt>t 

troubled in heart. 
^\)m" sister liere has elu^sen the wiser and belter ]")art. 
It sliall not be taken from lier, and in the L'il\- new. 
She shall ha\e her jilaee, u'ood Martha, and \ on shall 

ha\e \our tine." 

So in the mxstie future, that seems so distant and dim. 
The faithful all shall ha\e a plaee. read\- prepared by 

llim; 
And servant then be happy as the bri^hest eherubim. 



/ 



Inoratitiulc. 

TANPlNCi where the lights were iiieaming 

Clear and bright : 
Where all e\ es were gail\- beaming 

With delight ; 
Va\ aw av beyond the gloaming 

I eon Id hear 
vSomething, like a sad vi^lee moai\ing. 

As in fear. 

Then 1 left the lights and pleasures. 

And 1 went 
Towards the voiee whose mournful measures 

iMoke eontent. 
There I found iMie in the gloaming 

.\ll alone ; 
And lie made this eeaseless moaning 

\\'ith a groan : 



I noraliliiih' 



^ 



lOJ 



"O! I am so loiK' and weary 

Let nu' ilic ; 
Life lias nau^hl bill woes so drean- 

'Neath (he sky/' 
Then I said: ''My world-worn hiother 

I will be 
Truer friend, ihan e'er anothei- 

Was to tiiee. 

I will lea\e the halls of gladness 

Vnv thy sake. 
And my home 'mitl haunts of sadness 

I will make.'^ 
Thus J strove — nor \ain — to fill him 

With new life ; 
And with brii;"ht hopes to instill him 

For the strife. 

lie o-rcw sti-on^-, and laughed with gladness 

All the day; 
And the gloom, and doubt, and sadness 

Went away, 
lie, too, went and left me wee]")ing 

In the gloom ; 
And my heai1 was as in keeping 

Of the tomb. 

15ut \\c ne\ei" eame to eheer me 

With a word, 
And my soul was sad within mc. 

And was stirred. 
To its utmost depth of feeling. 

At the wrong. 
And the sorrow o'er me stealing 

Is this son<'-. 



10^ Mobbed. 

jMc)1)I)cc1. 

I From ;m iuoidont rolatoil liy an asreil ool<ir(?(l n>au.| 

f"'^ jNIURDERED maa was found one day, 
^ Near where my labors uriivd m\- feet, 
And I was dazed and eould not say 
One word to those in anirer's heat. 
To those who claimed the crime confessed, 
Because no sound came from my breast. 

In a forest, near the fatal spot, 
Vox two lons:^ hours I was alone ; 

And in that time the {\<:^^ was wrought. 
But 1 ne'er heard a cry, or moan. 

Mv foot-prints were the first ones found. 

And I was traced o'er all the around. 

How still the ni<iht ! I mind it now — 
Mv two young- children, smiling, slept. 

When slowly, down the mountain's brow. 
A mob of men through darkness crept. 

A gentle knock on my pine door, 

I answered — and met men, a score. 

"Come out!" low hissed a grinning mask; 

1 saw a rope in careless coil — 
And iruessed the meaning of their task. 

And thought, '" 'tis over, all earth's toil." 
M\- wife ran out in wild alarm. 
And sought to sa\e me from their harm. 

No time to say a brief "farewell," 
I could not kiss mv helpless babes. 

Afar I heard a tolling bell. 

While dragged away to forest shades. 

1 tried to think, and stroNC to pray, 

In terror of the I'udgment day. 



Mobbed. lo^ 

1 felt the noose, and wished to speak ; 

But strong hands held the hempen eord. 
And I was bruised, and faint, and weak. 

And could not fashion one poor word. 
I thou<;ht of Mar}', and a weii^ht 
Bore down all courage, yea, and hate. 

Why loosed those tugging hands their hold? 

What meant that loud, alarmed outcry? 
Why came that breathless rider, bold, 

On speeding steed? To see me die? 
I only caught one word — the rest 
Were wholly lost — he cried: ''Confessed!" 

I swooned away, and when again 

Did come to know of earthly things, 

I was at home, all racked with pain. 

And 'round my throat were purple rings; 

And my poor Mar}', wan and ill. 

Bent o'er me, in the gray-light chill. 

A moment more, had been too late ; 

The Law, not vengeance, must be best. 
No mere}? lurks in human hate. 

And murder thrives at its behest. 
The murderer, by law, was tried ; 

Condemned to swing from scaffold grim. 
Through law he suffered, yea, and died. 

Yet I had late been mobbed for him. 



io6 /mii\rm Smmmntr, 

Indian Summer. 



jUKiiN V : . ..utun-.r, time, 

M\^c - - • 

'W;- ■ ^ . - ■ ::e 

1\ - : grvAv ^ / ^ vior : 

We hear thy daintv- step, 

Wek\>me thv coming, 
WTiile the wiKl KVs rx^gret 

SaJK' is humminiT. 

Thss wvMrki is full of care — 

Thy wax-^ aie soothin<r: 
Where all the \irear\* are. 

Thou wilt be mo\^.r.ir: 
la diean-: - :-et way 

Thctt v.. .V sin^.r^: 
"' Rest from th^ ^ ■' t<^ay — 

Au^rama is v> ^_ i^/* 

Gather rf»e hifcknis nti:s, 

Gacher the w::ie trdit. 
C>iJt frvan the ctlhr^ ruc^. 

Where the wiM \~itws rv»ot: 
Now is the harv^est time. 

Labor fe pleasure: 
Fores^ts are your> arui nt::te. 

Gather their treastire. 

Tlie wv>Hd is itilt vH woe — 
TKcitt tNTighters: ir^admsss^ 
Atk' "^^ '^ sac :- :r>>. 

With sunshir.e :s. . ^n. 

With stArrx . . 

Sweet Qtx>er., . : : ...::v. - x 

We h.^ntaiTi' rv 



S-CiY/ I 'o/(YS. 



/(>: 



Swccl \ OICCS. 

WAV 'inoHi;- the hills there's a rivci-. 
f^-" Where tho ghosts oi the hemlock ami plm\ 
Speed o\ er the \va\es when a-i|iii\er. 
Are lea\ es in the nierr\ sunshine. 

And the murmurinL:; tones oi this ri\ei", 

I iiear in the silence ot night. 
And the\- set nw ^iad heart all a-shixer 

With rapturous thrills of delight. 

And 1 hear in menior\'s dreamhuul. 

As I walked down the pathwa\s ot Time, 
The \ oiee i^t the wind in the tree tops. 
The ti>ps of the sweet-seented pine. 

O I 1 know its melodious whisper. 

'Tis softer than twitter of birds. 
"Tis sweeter than e\en the sweetest 

Of a lo\ er's most beautiful words. 

As it falls v>n mv soul like the dew-drop. 
Fall soft on the heart oi a tlower. 

More soothing, more pme. nuire refreshing, 
'Than hea\ ier falling of shower. 

The shower that oft beats the blossom, 
A poov blighted thing, in the dust, 

.\nd rends from its torn, nakeil bc\sse>m 
The last tattered leaf of its tiiist. 

Oh I the \-oiees that sang through mv ehiklhood. 
Of waters, oi birds, and of bees, 

Aiul the sweet lullab\s of the wildwooil — ■ 
What musie is sweeter than these. ^ 

The towns ha\ e a wonderfid elanuH', 

A wild, rushing, wildering noise. 
Of an\il, and engine, and hammer, 

l^ut m\' stnd oi this turmoil socui elo\ s : 



loS Her Sin. 

And turns to the forest and meadow, 
To the ghnt of the sun on the leaves, 

And rests in the half-broken shadow, 
And looks unto God and believes. 

Believes in the good and the holy, 
Believes in the pure and the true ; 

Believes in the meek and the lowly, 
As the God-given soul ought to do. 



Her Sin. 

HE might}' angel frowned, then wrote 
In burning letters, as of lire. 
Her sin, while »'er the maiden's throat 
The crimson life-tide crept higher. 

Have mere}- on wiy tender ^ears ; 

O ! spare the record, hide the stain — 
The maiden plead and shook with fears, 

But all her pleading was in vain. 

She went awa}', the book was sealed 
With seven seals ; and all her sin 

Would somewhere, sometime, be revealed 
Before a throng of cherubim 

The maiden thought, and wildlv wept. 
Then on her knees cried: "God! forgive 

For His dear sake, nn- sin;"' then slept, 
Murm'ring, "In peace mv soul shall live." 

W^hen in the dreadful judgment hour. 
The recording angel broke the seal 

To read her crime, with awful power, 
He found no guilt there to reveal. 

But all the page was crimsoned o'er 

With stains like blood. The angel smiled. 

''There was a record here before. 

His blood has washed it clean, mv child.'' 



Under I he Shade of I lie 'frees. log 

Under the Shade oi the Frees. 

I "l/i't us ell >ss t lie river ;\n(l res I uiiilcr the shade of the I ices."— /.((.s/ \ii>ri\:< itf Slnne- 

i('(UI .liiclcsoii. I 

/i^HERE'S ;i glory in li\ing, if life is li\cd wcli^ 
"^ But the glory of dying no poet may tell. 
When looking away to the opposite shore 
The soul sees the beauties that fade nc\er more. 

The hero of battles grows tender and mild. 
And seeks this sweet rest, with the faith of a ehild ; 
A ehild elimbing up to its mother's soft breast, 
Well knowinir her kisses will soothe it to rest. 

The heat of the da\' with its burden is past, 
War's ixlories and terrors are over at last, 
O! the Hero has felt on his brow the eool breeze 
As he passed to his rest, 'neath the shade of the trees. 

And who shall dare sa}- that this vision was naught. 
That 'twas from the pain of delirium wrought? 
Who can tell what the soul of a d}ing man sees. 
When he speaks of the ''river" and '' rest 'neath the 
trees?" 

lie thought of his comrades, their weary, worn feet. 
With compassionate tenderness, wonderously sweet, 
He called to them all when he felt Heaven's breeze, 
"'Let us cross the ri\er and rest 'neath the trees."'' 

O ! Cjod I when our life and our labors are done, 
In the name of the Holy Immaculate One, 
We pray that we, too, ma}' see visions like these, 
And know wc are going to rest 'neath the trees. 



no Over! Ozcr.' 

Over ! Over ! 

A gentleman, ciglil^ iour y«>;ifs old, recently said tn me : "I lia\ e o\iili\fd my day and 
j^enenitiou, I am of no more use in this world : 1 am just waitiuf; on the liank of 
the river for the boatman to eome after me. 1 sometimes think that I hear tlie 
j.Iashinii of the oars, and I keep ealliUfi 'Over: Over!" all the while, so that he 
shall lie snre to lind me." 'Ihinki'ii; of those words, spoken hall liunionuisly and 
lialf earnestly, 1 liave written the followinii lines :1 

l/*j^ONELY, watching, *mid the shadows, 
^^"^ Close beside the storm-washed shore, 
I can ahiiost hear the boatman 

As he phcs his bus}' oar; 
But he does not seem to heed me. 

Nor to hear my earnest call — 
"Over! over!'"' 1 am waiting, 

Where the twilitrht shadows fall. 

How I've toiled to reach this river. 

More than four-score years are o'er 
Since I started on my journey 

To that blissful, other shore ; 
Now. beside the silent water, 

I am watching for a sail ; 
"Over! over!"' I am calling 

To the boatman, still and pale. 

Hark ! 1 think I hear — not distant, 

SomcthiiiiT like a mutHed oar: 
Ah ! the boatman hears my pleading 

And has left the other shore. 
''Over! over!" still I'll call him. 

For the night's dark shadows lie 
Close and thick around about me. 

He mav once more pass tiie by. 

Surel}' now he must be near me. 

For mv earthly tasks are o'er. 
And this world has naught of beauty, 

Liifht t>r briirhtness for me more. 
Yes ! I hear the oars a-plashing. 

Soon his call will break the gloom. 
And mv soul, with jo}' responding. 

Will be launched be\ond the tomb. 



Afri'icrl)el Crrey. iii 

Annabel Grey. 

T was twiliijjht holy, '" tlic lover's hour,'' 
Annabel (jrcy sought her \ine-clad bower, 
To meet there one who was dear to her 
As the snow-eloud is to mountain fir. 

He came with tlie grace of Launcelot, 
And brought to that sacred, fragrant spot 
A pride like death, and a worldly skill. 
To tenderl}' crush and kindly kill. 

Annabel Grey, a simple flower. 
Less than naught in his haught}- power. 
She was to him just a pretty toy, 
While he to her was her life, her joy. 

One blossom there, she had loved and kissed. 
With silken leaves, like the autumn mist. 
The only one in that cool retreat. 
She kissed it then, and low at his feet 

She laid it down, with a quivering sigh. 
And said: "'You must love, my darling, or T 
Shall know that you love not me ; for. Oh ! 
I sometimes fear that it is not so." 

He took the flower, with careless grace. 
And bent a smile on the upturned face 
That sent the blood, with a sudden thrill. 
Up to her cheek, as the north wind chill 

Will bring a tingle when sunshine uleams 
With power to melt the frozen streams. 
Genevieve Ray, at that moment came. 
With her wa\ing hair and cheeks like flame. 

Came and stood like an Indian queen. 
In a little space, those hearts between. 
She saw the flower — " Prav trive to me 
That half-crushed blonm, and I will to thee 



112 Tou and I. 

Give this crimson rose — resplendent thing — 
More suited to grace my proud heart's king.' 
He gave the flower ; Annabel Grey, 
In speechless woe, went her weary way. 

Her heart sank down like a fallen star, 
Her eyes caught a beam of worlds afar. 
He wed, with pomp, bright Genevieve Ray ; 
While angels welcom'd Annabel Grey. 



You and I. 



/|^ADLY the storm-wa\es of Fate's cruel sea, 
III ^ Are scndino- dark waters all over the land ; 
And the life of happiness that might be. 
Is sunk beneath its treacherous sand. 

We know those sweet, pure hopes of ours are lost, 
And in their stead are ravens, croaking o'er 

The lonely graves we've made at heavy cost. 
Chattering their monotonous, "no more.'' 

Alas! '"no more, no more," and yet the roll 
Of Fate's cold waves still tide along for a3^e, 

And Death stands mocking at the wear}^ soul, 

Crvinof, "how fares your breakino- heart to-day?" 

You and I have always known much grief, 

And I have always murmured more than yoix ; 

Have asked for Leathean waves to bring relief, 
While sad tears have fallen like the dew. 

I glad would yield my wretched life for youi-s. 
If this could bring you wished-for happiness ; 

We bear the pain which alone death cures. 
And wait for las^orino- Azrael's chill caress. 



My Dai'Iing. i/J 

My Darling-. 

I HEARD the south wind whispering to the trees, 
* I saw the smiHng «ind the ghstening leaves, 
And all the land was in a glory, sweet and clear. 
For it was the beauteous summer of the 3ear. 

O, the listening and the glistening 

Of the leaves ! 
O, the cooing and the wooing 

Of the breeze ! 

My darhng to the woodland tryst came fleet, 
With the dew drops on her mantle and her feet; 
And all the evening beauties shrank away. 
For m^• darlino- was more beautiful than they. 

O, the smiling and beguiling 

Of her face ! 
O, the lightness and the brightness 

Of her o;race ! 

The north wind, with a rushing and a roar, 
Swept the glorious autumn forest o'er. 
And Winter, with his awful, chilling breath. 
Brought to liiv darling and the flowers, death. 

O, the moaning and the groaning 

Of the trees ! 
O, the sighing and the dying 

Of the leaves ! 

Ah ! her words, so sweet and tender, still I hear, 
Like the music of the brooklet, low and clear; 
And my fancy doth behold her in a light 
Soft and ha/y, as the mystic 'proach of night. 

O, the deepness, the completeness. 

Of the tomb! 
O, the sadness ! O, the madness. 

Of its gloom ! • 



114 ^>^//r Pastor. 

I am told there is a somewhere, out of sight, 
Where the faihng mortal vision shall grow bright, 
And where those whom earth hath hidden shall appear, 
And that I may see ni}- darling, still so dear. 

O, the hoping, while Fm groping. 

Here below ! 
O, the grieving, e'en believing. 

Souls may know ! 



Our Pastor. 

f SAT in m\- place, on that autumn morn. 

Which iNIay with November had blended. 
And I watched the tints from their union born, 
'Till our pastor's sermon was ended. 

I had listened in such a dreamy way. 
That the text is but half remembered. 

For my thouo-hts were half on a crimson ray 
That down from a sunbeam had clambered. 

But something I caught of the earnest words, 

" The eagle stirreth her nest," 
And m\- thoughts went out like the summer birds 

Seeking a place of rest. 

The sermon was o'er, and our pastor bowed. 

For a moment his kindly face ; 
While a rustling stir, from the silent crowd. 

Said — ■"Waitino- now for Lrrace." 

But our pastor arose, with a tiush of pain 
O'er sweeping his brow and cheek. 

Like a sudden dash of the autumn rain. 
When the hills are growing bleak. 



Out Pastor. II J 

And lie said — lie was s^oinir o'er dale and hill, 

(joing away to stay ; 
O'er rivers deep, and mountain's rill, 

(joing forever and a3'e. 

Like a breaker's boom against the shore. 

When ealm sleeps on the sea. 
Or the sudden hush of a cavern's roar, 

Were our pastor's words to me. 

"What shall we do without him here?'' 

My heart in its woe kept crying; 
''Who'll till his place in the coming year; 

W^ho'll watch with the sick, and dying?'' 

For I thouuht of his tone, when the ancrel Death 

1 1 ad stricken our darlinsi; low. 
And I heard again, o'er my sobbing breath. 

His words of comfort flow. 

Sing — '"Rock of Ages, cleft for me," 

He said, his clear voice ringing. 
But we, in our silent agony. 

Had little heart for singing. 

But I thought, as they sang, how deep and wnde. 

The rock had been cleft for him. 
And felt that he, with the purified. 

Had entered its bliss within. 



ji6 l^nrequited Love. 

Unrequited Love. 

fTINY, blue-eyed blossom, 
Grew near a narrow path. 
Where looking up it learned to love 

A tall form mo^■ing past; 
Yet how to tell its passion 

It could not quite conceive, 
And oft" in midnight darkness, 
In dewy tears did grieve. 

But when the sun, resplendent. 

Shone on its pretty face. 
It smiled, in dainty beaut}-, 

And bowed with winsome grace ; 
But he would never notice 

The wayside blossom sweet, 
Which shed its heart's best frai>-rance 

About his careless feet. 

And soon the tender flower 

Grew sad, and lost its grace. 
Yet crept still near, and nearer. 

With weary, haggard face. 
At length, in careless moment, 

Unheeding this sweet trust. 
He set his heel upon it, 

And crushed it in the dust. 

With but small show of pity. 

He raised the blighted thing. 
And strove some ray of color 

Unto its leaves to bring ; 
And then, with sudden passion. 

He tore the flower dim. 
Forgiving still, it whispered — 

" 'Tis sweet to' die for him."" 



One Critic. 

One Critic. 

fl BLUE bird, perched on an apple bough, 
Was singing, as well as he knew how, 
When all at once the leaves were stirred 
V>y the gay ''ha! ha!" of a mocking bird. 

"Now, I declare, on a singer's word. 
Your notes are the worst I ever heard ; 
Please listen close,'' and he mocked them o'er — 
"I have laughed at you 'till my throat is sore." 

"You heed no rules, either quick or slow; 
And your singing is just horrid. Oh ! 
])on't try again, you will cause my death! 
Such tunes as yours, takes away mv breath." 

The poor blue bird turned a tear-dim eye, 
And said with a sob, and a stifled sigh : 
"That my songs are poor, sir, 'tis well known. 
And yet, ni}^ notes are always m}- own." 

" I ■ never stole your favorite note, 
As you poured it from your ready throat, 
And by subtle twist m;ide it seem to be 
Something belonging of right to me." 

"So let me sing in my simple wa}'. 
There may be one who will like my la}-. 
Some care-worn heart full of pain, or grief, 
To which my smging may give relief.'' 



/// 



ilS A ]Von}an\'< Story. 

A W Oman's Story. 

eOME, srentle maiden, sit voii liciv 
~-^ iJeside my knee. 
While I teach wisdom, paid tor dear, 

And 3'ou teach me 
Of hope and trust, and all tilings grand 
Near the grasp of a maiden's hand. 

How young and pure, how fair to see. 

Your heart how light ; 
How quick your pulse, how full and free ; 

Your eyes, how bright ; 
Sweet maid, I pray you may not know 
The tears that blind in their bitter flow. 

Earth's wisdom — yes; my promise — sure. 

Did I forget? 
Ah ! no, sweet child, while 1 endure 

Pangs of rciiret, 
I shall remember earthly lore : 
I've conned its story o'er aiid o'er. 

Long years ago. in land somewhere — 

Time does not wait — 
.\ home for me ^vas builded fair. 
And there in state it stood 
Till on the damp'ning wood 

The still moths ate 
The carpets in the solitude. 

How was it? A\^ell, or was it well? 

I cannot see ; 
Nor can I half the story tell 

As it should be. 
?vly lo\e — oh, God! I thought him base. 
And from him turned an angiT face. 



Tlierc stood the house, and tliere decay 

Crept round it slow ; 
I saw it i;Towinii; damp and gray 

In rain and snow ; 
And more than this — I saw the trace 
Of aniruish on my darhno-'s face. 

Ah, yes, my love, he soon grew old. 

And gra}', and bent ; 
His heart grew hard, and dull and cold 

With discontent ; 
While sick with grief fore\er I 
Languished and prayed that 1 might die. 

The hopeless years, so still they move ; 

So sullen, slow ; 
I watch them creep along the groove 

Down which 3'ears Mow, 
And hate them for their drear}- pace. 
Longing to hide in dust my face. 

Now, gentle maid, fair, true and sweet, 

What can you say 
Of hope, and love, and trustful faith. 

To me this day? 
You dwell so close to heaven's light. 
What star for me gleams clear and bright? 

Is there no rest for feet that stray? 

Is there no peace? 
Is there no beam to guide the way, 

And no release? 
Tell me, if aught your clear eyes see. 
Of peace, or hope, or rest for me? 



120 My Ship Went Dcnvn. 

Mv Ship \\ cnt Down. 

^<^\ANY years ago, \vhen the waves were bright 
ii ^ As the peaceful gleam of a clear moonlight, 
Looking as calm, and as gently still 
As the mirror'd stars in some meadow rill. 



I sent a ship, with a pure freight of kne. 
O'er the silver waves. There were clouds above. 
But I gave no heed to the sk3'''s chill frown. 
Or thought that mv ship could ever go down. 

Oh, she sailed awav in her tender pride. 
And I watched her swift o'er the waters glide, 
"'Till she passed from view, and a purple gleam. 
Like a tinire of blood, obscured the scene. 



Then I watched bv the waves, and the changing sea 

Had only a dull, heavy frown for me. 

And I often heard, in the sullen roar 

Of the an<rrv waves, "No more, no nn)re!'' 



At last the long hoped for day did come. 
When mv precious ship would reach her home. 
And awav I flew down the yielding sands. 
And out o'er the tide reached mv easi'er hands — 

Like some happ}' child, who cannot wait 
For the form she sees near the cottage gate ; 
The form of one, than all the world, more dear. 
And she cries for joy, as the form draws near. 

Oil, how my ship flew before the gale! 

With her canvas spread, aye, every sail 

Was stretched in the breeze like the straininij cord 

That speeds a shaft to the frightened herd. 



Ph i/osopfi y. 12 J 

I called very loud, but my joyful cry 
I lad a hollow sound, like a sobbini;- si,i;h ; 
And down 'neath the waves, with sudden dip, 
Vanished from view my great, white ship. 

O ! I mourn for the freight so sadl}- lost, 

It was Love, and Trust, of a priceless cost; 

Now the world mav smile, or the world ma}' frown, 

It matters not, since my ship went down. 



Phll()S()|)h\'. 

HERE is something forever occurrinij. 

At which we may smile or must weep. 
As the world, with its rushing and stirring. 
Wakes memor}- out of her sleep. 

The summer comes, soothing with showers; 

We smile, when a rainbow is spread ; 
We stoop to caress the bright tiowers, 

And grasp only thorns in their stead. 

We smile, yet we know that the fountain 

Of sorrow has never run dry ; 
And troubles rise up like a mountain. 

Gloomy, uncertain and high. 



rys 



Phe friends — best beloved — soon forget us 

Or turn weary faces away ; 
Never more to esteem or reirret us. 
Though life lingers many a day. 

Thus onward through life we are g<iil^g, 
Our da3'S like a ri\er rush by ; 

We feel their tumultuous flowing 
And know that tlie ocean is nigh. 

There is something forever occuring, 
At which we may smile or may rave ; 

A mist o'er the landscape is blurring 
That vision before us — the irravc. 



122 Fragments. 

Frao-ments. 

irVE harkened, where the silences 
Were deep with mist of years ; 
I've' Hstened, where the echoes told 

The dropping" of m}- tears. 
My wounded heart so bowx'd with pain. 

Its weiirht was more than death, 
In beating storm, in night, and rain, 

Tve watched with bated breath. 
To see a white-winged messenger 

Like Eden's snowy dove; 
Fly swift to me, with story sweet. 

Of one heart's patient love. 



jj^O not forget that I lo\e you. 

Whatever all other may say ; 
The sun shines serenclv above vou. 

Though clouds ma}- oft darken the wa}' ; 
And though I shall never be near you, 

And ever and ever shall fear you, 
Yet still shall my soul often hear you 

Speak tenderlv, da^• after day. 



"J^ELL mc vou lo\e me, tell me once more. 

The sweet, sacred knowdedge my heart will repeat 
Like echoes resounding and whispering o'er. 
Till happiness kneels like a sla\'e at my feet. 



Be not so chary of words; what are^they? 

What can it matter, if man}- or few.^ 
AVhisper just once, in a low tender way : 

''My darling, I love jou — love only you." 



I'i\nj'iiic}ils. 



ll^OMETIllNCi worth}- a woman, 
J|) Something" daint}' and sweet, 
A eluster ol' fragrant blossoms. 
Or of irolden heads of wheat. 

CD 

Something quiet and restful. 
Something brilliant and ga)-, 

Something worthy of woman, 
I would la\- at her feet to-day. 



I HOLD m)- hand elose pressed upon my heart, 

To still its throbbing pain, for well I know 
That our paths now fore\er lie apart. 

'Tis written — '' \i^ shall reap that whieh ^e sow 
"^fhe whirlwind of our passion is cpiite o'er. 

The har\est — oh, how bitter — we must reap, 
()ui- life-boats, now, lie stranded on the shore; 

Oui" seN'er'd liearts must sorrow's \igil kcc]-). 



'~3 



VW. burdens of life lie in vague unrest. 

And doubts, whieh stand in sueh awful array; 
We sometimes repent: "The Father knows best," 

While fear of to-morrow absorbs rest to-day. 
What arc we? we (juestion : ''A handful of dust."' 

'i'lie answer comes back distinctly antl cleai-. 
Life's lesson of wisdom is only, Iriisl. 
We last a moment, a da\', or a \ear. 



rS^'Hl^ wild tide beats the shore again, 
^ And up from ocean's dark, bleak breast, 
Tvow murmurs come, as if some ]-)ain, 

Down deep below, broke all its rest. 
Sad souls are waiting near the strand. 

With aching hearts, and tear-dimmed eyes, 
h'or white-sailed boats that nexer land. 

But drift awa\- toward western skies. 



12^ M\ Frioids. 

Ai\' l^nencls. 



AM counting them up on my fingers — 
There are not very many, 1 know — 
And yet, liow fond memory Hngers, 

And wliispers their names, soft and low. 

There is Sadie, and Ann is and Annie, 

And Eva and dear httle Bess ; 
Ah, sureh- there cannot be many. 

Yet more, perhaps, than 1 guess. 

There is Sarali, awav in the east-land. 
And Marvs, perhaps half a score, 

And Affa, and Ida, and Emma — 
The list mav contain many more. 

But these are the friends that I count on, 

Whate^•er all others may say ; 
Their lo\ e has irrown \ast like a mountain, 

And thev do not grow in a dav. 

And Carrie, whv should 1 forget her? 

One of the dearest and best : 
And Ilattie. mv heart would regret hei". 

Were she not alonir with the rest. 

And Ollie. where now shall 1 place her? 

Staimch and true was she e\er to me; 
Foro-otten. 1 ne\er could face her 

Vet this is not likelv to be. 

And Ethic, may heaven protect her. 
For she is quite dear like the rest. 

And ne\er would I dare offend her. 
By saving — "' I love those the best." 

Demure little Delia — 1 wonder 

1 tind the list swelling so great — 

One of the best in the number — 

Tlu>ui:h mentioned so curtlv and late. 



Baby fs Sic!:. 12$ 

And Lulu ! Well, well, they keep coming;. 
Sweet bees, to the blossom of mind ; 

And 'round me are loved voiees humming- — 
Tender, and preeious, and kind. 

The cold world may try to alarm me 

It cannot; m^■ forces I see; 
I dare all my foes now to harm me, 

While thes'e friends are faithful to me. 



Baby Is Sick. 

;>|''HERE'S a gloom o'er our household, a iuish as of 
"-■^ death ; 

Faces look sad, and lips do not smile — 
For baby is wrestling with life for a breath. 

And we hear the rush of the river the while. 

O! the desolate nights, with their burden of pain, 
They have brought to her lips a piteous moan, 

That we in our anguish have echoed again. 
With sorrowful sigh and heart-troubled groan. 

So dear, with her sweet bain- ways has she been, 
So close has she grown to my sorrowful heart, 

That een though Fm told "such talk is a sin," 
I think it would kill me to tear us apart. 

My home — my lo\ed ones — my world — are here. 
Surrounded, alas ! with perishing walls. 

My treasures — iiof "laid up in heaven," I fear — 
I do not respond when the All-Father calls ; 

But cling to my idols, with grasp of despair, 

And look no"t beyond the dark water's chill tide; 

Though all is so glorious 'way over there, 
I want ii/y treasure awhih? on this side. 



220 



Will /W.'i'r. 



Will Tower. 



ISiijrjU'slcil li\ ;i luinailv madr li\ iMr^. 



al Swell S|iriii;4<. i 



(OU draw UK^ b\ iho iii;ii;"nct ot" \\)iir miiul, 
(^ ^'ou^ spiiit calls, and from ihc distance clear. 
My Dwn responds \vith promptness, and nou titul, 

rhroui:;h ilrearx space, the answer. *• 1 am here." 

You ihink ot" me and I ^row ill at ease, 
'S'our thought ma\- be a eiitieal re\ie\v ; 

M\' soul in auixuish \ainl\' tries lo jilease. 

And be at peace, and pardon seeks iVom mui. 

At nii^lu, with heatl upon \v>ur pilK w . \o\\ 
Oft meditate about, the paths 1 Ireatl ; 

And t|uesti»M"i all m\ lu-art's emotions true. 

While 1 nuist weep and wi>h that I were dead. 

"N'ou lo\e me in a strange, impassi\e waw. 

\'et woo me onl\' b\' xour mii;hi\ will : 
And all m\' bein^- feels the ma^ic swa\ 

Ol \our stroiiLi; siiul, with passi(^n*s ner\ mis thrill. 

Vou are to me moi\' cruel than niui knc>\\ ; 

M\' Ncarnin^- spirit tinds wo place of rest; 
^ on draw me, as the cord cmx es to the bow. 

And send me sorr(n\ iov a constant Liuest. 



You bind me with a tlum^- T cannot break, 
Try as 1 may, ami with exhaustlcss skill. 

Mv sold wears fetters always, for \-oin- sake. 
And is imprisoneil b\' \our strength of wil 



Dead. J2J 

I )ca(l. 

IWrilli'ii on Mic IJciiUi hI Mis. S. A. Iloliiii-s /kv M rs. .lull i (J;isI !.■ — liimi.if.v II.I.hs.-).'! 

|)EAD! find 1 saw her oiiIn ycstercl'i) — 

Or so to mc it sccnis — a sunny ray 
Of lio-ht and lo\c slionc o'er lici- liapp\' lace; 
And ah, her form was eloquent with orace. 

Dead! and cold, frozen shadows darkly rest 
Over lier fair features, and on iier breast 
IJe folded hands, wdiich recently were pressed 
By friendship's fmLiers, with a cordial zest. 

])ead ! withered all the warm-hued hopes that shone 
Radiant, like the flowers of orient zone. 
Life lanihient li;j,ht is darkened, and now^ 
The beauty of all thou^iit has left her brow. 

Where lurks the fiend who wrecked this lo\ely life? 
Where hides the monster who once whispered " wife" 
In lier fond ear? He whom she thought so lirave. 
Where is he now? the base deceitful kna\e. 

'Hie sweet youn_Ljj sinj^er bore a wounded heart. 
What strength had she to play life's dreary part? 
How could she live, when heavy, crushing woe 
Swept 'round her path like swirling;- drifts of snow.-' 

(), you, who have fair daughters, whom you kiss. 
Stop the cold breath of scandal's hooded hiss; 
Speak kindly of this early sleeping child, 
By promises of faithful love beguiled. 

Is it not dreadful when the dead must be 
Dragged to the bar <>f such cold charily.' 
Is it Hot awful that one creature dari' 
Profane a sister's plea of ^^ spare her, sparer" 

Author of justice! shame these human things 
That cavil, while the solemn death-bell rings; 
And while the minister low kneels to j^ray, 
Korstalls the sentence of the judgment day. 



228 -Too Late, 

Dead! aye, she's dead; the tuneful voice is mute, 
The chords he broken on the silver lute. 
The loveHght has gone from out those brown eyes 
To blend with ravs that shine in Paradise. 



Too Late. 



^ARK ! I hear an eager footstep ! 
{\ Open wide the door ; 
See, he comes, my lord, my lo\er ; 
Comes to roam no more. 

Trembling lips await his kisses, 

Heart beats free and fast ; 
Can it be? the footstep passes — 

Hope is dead at last. 

Close the door, and bar the shutters, 

These night winds are chill ; 
Human hearts must learn earth's wisdom, 

" Suffer and be still." 

Months go b}', the same quick footstep. 

Sounds along the way ; 
Doors ai-e locked and windows fastened, 

Night and drear}' da^•. 



Footsteps pause ; then eager knocking 

At the 2;arden irate : 
Go and say — ''the house is vacant, 

You have come too late.'' 

Thus it should be, aye, forever; 

Scorned, the scorner turns ; 
Broken faith is mended never. 

Ashes fill the urns. 



Dead S.m Fniif. I2g 

Dead Sea Fruit. 

[fVVEET Marian, like a sun-ray, 
J Came close to my side, one bright day, 
A flush on her innocent face — 
Which ga\e it a prettier grace — 
As she asked, her voice like a lute: 
"Dear Auntie, what is Dead Sea fruit?" 

She waited an answer. Ah, me ! 

The child should ne'er dream of the sea — 

That Dead Sea, so heavy and still \ 

It gave my own stout heart a chill 

To think of its slumbering gloom. 

Like breath from the midst of a tomb. 

So I said, in a hushed voice, low : 

"INIy love, there are man}- who know 

About the dread fruit of that sea ; 

I cannot define it to thee. 

It's ashes, it's mystical lore. 

The sages must tell those tales o'er." 

''But ask that lone mother, whose tears 
Have fallen, for wearisome years. 
Since her onlv child went astray- 
And was lost, forever and aye ; 
Ask her, as she sits sad and mute, 
To tell 3-()u about Dead Sea fruit." 

"Or ask that old man o'er the wa}'. 
With bowed head, earl}- turned gray ; 
Dark clouds like a \€\\ of despair 
Seem shuttino^ him out from the air. 
He once had a daughter — Ah, well I 
Where she is, I never dare tell.''^ 



/JO Dead Sea J^^nu'/. 

•'Go ask that pale woman, whose eves 
Flash out in «.|uick. angr\ surprise; 
She sees her betra3-er, all smiles, 
Deceiving- another with wiles 
Learned of Satan. She knows, 3-ou see, 
IIow bitter the fruit of that sea." 

''Ask those who luu e known direst woe. 
Who ha\e watched the \ears heaxil}' go. 
With heart-sorrows closel}' concealed. 
The wretchedness never revealed 
B}- a word, to a dull mortal ear. 
Though anxious friends close bend to hear.' 

"The wild, sullen w^ish of the waves. 
That foam o\er heart-hidden graves. 
And the sound of the anguish below. 
Where dark waters dismallv flow. 
Ah, God knows how manv there be 
Who taste of the fruit of that sea.'' 

''Ask those wlio ha\c shed the most tears. 
Whose hair is all gra\- — not with years — 
Whose eves speak a great sorrow, mute. 
And they can define Dead sea fruit. 
I pray. (oh. I close clasped the child) 
That midst this w^orld's mad re\el wild, 
Where each heart its own sorrows know, 
That never, with dark ebb and tiow. 
Black despair shall swx^ep over thee. 
Or thou taste the fi'uit of ihat sea." 



/;/ J/i'/i/ory. — ,1 Siiiorci' (lOin'. jji 

In Alemor)' 



;(>f Mr. \. M;iltl'V. I 



ItoilSTEN I Hear Death's mighty river flowing; 

See those toward its dim border going; 
Who hath now, the bank stepped over, hiding 
'Neath waves, to immortal glory gliding? 

Ah, 'tis one whose heart beat nobly ever; 
One who wronged the poor and lowly never; 
When he heard the \oiee of sorrow erying, 
He responded to its faintest, low^est sighing. 

lie has gone away from earth and sadness. 
To a home where all is peaee and gladness 
Leaving friends with anguished hearts aquiver 
GrievinLT for his loss, this side the river. 



7 



Ah, how soon resistless waves will earry 
Eaeh true heart across. They e'en may tarr}- 
Kut a dav. amid earth's scenes of sorrow. 
And know the bliss of "perfect rest'" to-morrow. 



A Sinixer Gone. 

l^lll MfllKUV <lf V. V l,iiss.| 

/^'HERE'S a vacant place in the world's great choir, 

-" A rift in the music, sweet and solemn ; 
A tuneful flame of masterful tire. 

Has missed the power that gave it volumn. 

There are saddened h.earts throughout all the land. 

And joy no more from the lip goes singing. 
As we chant the sonars from that master-hand, 

'i'hose songs which taught us the worth of singing. 

Though a star has gone from the sky of song. 

The angel choir has an added glory, 
For echointy there is his clear voice strong, 

In tliat sacred theme. '"The old, old stor}-." 



IJ2 A Love S()//o\ — Hope. 

A Love Sono-. 

I HAVE a loNcr a\va\- o'er the sea; 

Remote as the poles is \\\\ love from me. 

Yet, as throbs his true heart, beats my heart too, 

And thus I know that \\\\ lo\er is true. 

* 
No messaize or line iroes o^■er the wave. 

As silent as death, as still as the grave. 

The sweet simimer air, and ehill winter's snow, 

'Tween he and I — vet he loves me, I know. 

Sometimes I cast on the wave's foamv crest, 
A rosebud white, the flower he loves best, 
And awav it tiies. on the billows above. 
To where he stands waitinir — a messaire of love. 

TJie sea is so deep, so dark, and so strong-, 
He never can reach me, all the vear long ; 
The sea is so stormv, and oh. so wide, 
I never shall be my true-lover's bride. 

But when, some day, to that harbor, his boat 
Is wafted away, to restfullv float 
Where Eden's soft breezes play o'er the sea, 
jNIy lover will anchor and wait for me. 



H()|K\ 






LEST star of His love, how sweet is thy gleaming; 
(^ How clear is thv li2:ht o'er darkening skies ; 
How fondly I iiaze on thv briirht beauty, seeminir 
To give me a glimpse of a near Paradise. 

Unseen h\ the world, thou dost hover above me, 
An anirel, in robes like the irlitterinir irold ; 

Though coy, ever coy, I think thou dost love me, 
For m\- heart, e'en in woe, doth thy brightness 
behold. 



The Bitter Speech. ijj 

The Hitter speech. 

'^JjNKIND, you savr don't tell me pmy ! 
^^ The evil that's" aHoat to-day, 

It drives me to despair. 
I would not know these notes of woe. 
These slanders flyini;- to and fro, 

Like buzzards throu^-h the air. 

I sure ha\e heard, from some foul bird, 
Eaeh unkind speeeh, eaeh bitter word, 

EV'r eoupled with my name. 
So let this tale l;"o on the gale. 
Roll. ra\e and sigh, howl, moan and wail, 

'Twill soon be all the same 

To me. Ah! must }-ou tell? well! well! 
Fast weave around the shallott spell, 

ril trv to be resigned. 
The tale impart : bruise, break m}- heart, 
Let fly the deadl}-, poisoned dart. 

And free vour anxious mind. 

When shall I rest, with pulseless breast, 
Where no malieious, unetuous guest 

Can bring unpleasant news? 
With trait'rous smile, so full of guile, 
And lips worse than the lazy Nile, 

Reeking with satan's ooze. 

There yet must be in store for me, 
A blissful Lethean destiny. 

Where soon — alas ! or late, 
No tongue of fire, with Nenom dire 
Surcharged, can on me vent its ire. 

And pour its honeyed hate. 



/jy lo A Caviler. — My Sister. 

To A Caviler. 

¥HEN friendship speaks, I always answer ''here!'' 
What God eommands, I meekly stri\ e to do ; 
But never yet, has any mortal fear 

Compelled me — boastino- man — to answer you. 

This path is mine ; if full of thorns it be, 

1 walk it, as in very truth I slK)uld ; 
It is the way mv Father planned for me. 

And so — for mc — I know the path is g-ood. 

You question in mere human earelcssness, 

And ea\ il, often thinking only ill ; 
T listen to the tender blissfulness 

Of other tones, until \our Noiee is still. 

I'he swaying pine sighs all the year along; 

'The willows, near the marsh, do not upbraid ; 
This wav is mine, my own this simple song, 

And 1 will sing it, bold and unafraid. 

M\' Sister. 

CkW ! sister, from llie spirit land, 

^ Dost thou look out and see us here? 

Dost sometimes note the little band 

(jrieving for thee, year after year. 
AVe miss thee — oh. the heart's unrest! 
Our only eomfort : thou art blest. 

Mv irentle s-ister — stranu'c it is — 

We never knew th\' patient heart 
Until it broke. Sueh grief is this. 

To say, "'twas best that we should part. 
How often would I fain pass o'er 
And joiii thee (n\ that other shore. 



(rfcf/i/ude. 

And stand a manicnt b}- thy side, 
If tlicn to turn from thee awa^- ; 

Sliall not we near thee soon abide. 
In fairer land, in brigliter day? 

Sweet sister mine, no heart doth know 

How oft my tiiouirhts toward thee iro. 



( jratitudc. 

j[^)ONG years a^o, when hfe was young. 

Care-free, and full of hope for me, 
I kissed a eliild, who sweetl}' sung 

Before my door ; and reeentiy 
The ehild returned — a ehikl no more — 
And sought my humble cottage door. 

He sang again, as once before. 

Swept harp-chords with a gentle touch 

That reached ni}- heart, and moved it mueli, 

Not now in threadbare garments; he 

Stood proudl}', and most graccfulh- 

Said: "Once you kissed me, long ago — 

It was a little act I know — 

But all these \ears that tender kiss 

Kept in my heart a dream of bli^+s." 

"M}- mother" (here a tear drop fell) 
"'Died years ago. I mind it well, 
And from that hour no lips met mine. 
Until the}- felt that kiss of thine ; 
And I have journe3-ed far and long. 
To thank you in a simple song."' 
He bent his liead, and went awaw 
Nor ha\ e I seen him from that da\' ; 
And yet it is beatitude 
^\o think, oj/c heart feels irratitude. 



^35 



Jj6 ./ J^ovcr. — Marah. 

A Lcn'cr. 

I HAVE a lover — you may not bolic\c it I 
* A lover fond, tender and true ; 
lie offered his love, I, glad to reeeive it, 
Thoiiglit surel}" it must be my due. 

But times rolls away, the leaves have grown serer, 

M\- hair is fast ehanging to white ; 
And so, with surprise, 1 find myself nearer 

The heart of mv lo\cr, to-night. 

He shields me from danger; he stands elose beside me. 

No matter what others may sa}'. 
In sorrow still near me, when e\ils betide nie, 

1 have a true lover to-dav. 

1 laugh at the world, seeure in the shelter 

Of love's arms, so tenderly prest. 
Foes may alarm me, and then fast I skelter 

Home to mv true lover's breast. 



Ma rah. 

^'Tlv: Waters of Marah Were Bittcrr 

iKx.. u. eli..'j:'.il Vor.l 

r|\'ER rtoods of grief, dark, dismal, deep, 
Some have passed to the other side — 
Climed rough roeks. up the hillside steep. 
There from the woes of earth to hide. 

Some have walked through the sullen flood. 
Keeping paee with a weary tread, 

Throuiih sursrinir waves, all stained with blood. 
And wild storms beatiuif about their head. 



The \va\cs of woe are hitler; aye. 
Our liearts i;ro\v eliill in this ch"ead vvliirl — 

Moan, and shrink, and weep, and pra^', 
And struggle out from the seething- swirl. 

Struggle up from the murk and gloom. 

Into the light of heaven's sun ; 
And fall at last into the tomh. 

(ilad that the toil of life is done. 



(irowino- Old. 

^' D ) you knov: vcJijf it is /<> i^'Vyk;- Old?'' 

LJ^IIAT is it pray? 1 do not know; 
"^^ 1 ha\e no fears which trouble me; 
What matters it how old we grow? 
Fate wea\ es for us our destinw 

1 see \w\ hair turns white, like snow, 
Mv eyes get dimmer e\er\- da}'. 

My footsteps falter, and more slow ; 
Less stately, too, I take nn way. 

I watched the fresh spring leayes turn sere ; 

I see them shudder, sigh, and fall ; 
There comes a winter to each \"ear ; 

1 note these things, and that is all. 

Sanw nexer we our li\ es ha\e planned ! 

\\'h\- not he passive, like the leaf; 
We' re fashioned h\ the same strong hand, 

\\'\\\ should we, more than the\-, feel grief? 

M\ time to fade has come, 'tis true; 

• Tis true such time must come to all ; 
I do not grieve, but simply \ie\\ 

Myself, a leaf about to fall. 



jjS Had I ir/;/(rs. 

Had 1 \\ inu's. 

ipftll, h:ul 1 strv>ng wini^s like the cai;'lc, 
^^ \\\ tl\- to the high mountain hind. 
And build on the summit an e3'ne, 
]>evond liunian eyesight and hand. 

For Till wean- of Hfe and its heart-aches, 
1 am tired, and never find rest; 

In sight of these sad luinian lieart-breaks. 
The hL)me of the eagle were best. 

Oil, had I great wings, hke the condor. 

\\\ sail oer the weird, lonel^• sea. 
In strange desert lands wouUl I wander. 

Where no human soul conkl I see. 

I grow so imjiatient with waiting 

l"or peace which ne'er yet lia\e 1 known. 

And the things 1 ha\e loved now are sating; 
Far better the N\ikl sea-bird's home. 

1 would ll\ . all aloiH', i>"er the mountain. 
Or dip nu' strong wings in the sea. 

And plunge in tlu' cataract's fountain 
With the glad, reckless life of the free. 

The fetters of life cliafe and fret me — 

1 hate all its isms and lies. 
AN'hich bind me with chains, nor will let me 

From earth's mire and miseiA' lise. 



Si/s/>i';/t/i\/. 



/JQ 



Siisj)en(le(l. 



?,>^'WAS only .'I ?iL'wspapcr — so men said — 

'^^ A venture ended, a newspaper dead. 
TIius the}' ehatted on in a eareless wa}-, 
Saying that papers were I'aiHng eaeh day ; 
But they Httle thougiit of the hope and pride. 
Wrecked and crushed when the newspaper dit 



•a. 



And they did not tliink of the aims so hii^h. 
Nor of aspirations bright as the sky. 
And they never dreamed of the pain and woe 
That fdled one heart when the paj^er must go. 
For tis never known in the world of men, 
Wliat agonv haunts a po;)r editor's den. 

I lis paper lie \ iewed with a fatlier's pride. 

And loved it as men do their chosen bride. 

For its hfe and weal he had toiled when, still 

La^• the sleeping world, like a frozen rill. 

lie had studied and delved for a sentence new. 

That would shine with the histre of sun-touched dew. 

And his thoughts soared off on tlie wings of juliss. 
And his smile grew soft, like an angeFs kiss. 
When the j>rinted sheet of his own command, 
He first h:ul held in his eager hand; 
And his bosom thrilled with a touch of pride. 
When he saw perfection on e\ er\- side. 



And his heart grew light — for his failh was strong- 
As the waves of the sea when they dash along, 
l^ut clouds came over his summer sky. 
And the chilling winds of doubt swept by. 
And the editor's cheek grew wan and pale. 
For he felt that b.is newspaper might fail. 



yyo 77/(7/ u)id No-iv. 

Yet Uc toiled uwa}', aiul llie woild — lor him — 
Meant lour din^y walls of an otliee dim. 
With windows small — and a dusty tloor — 
And a bioken hini^e on a eieaking door; 
And lit' tliDUglu ot the old-time mart\rs, when 
He elimbed the stairs oi" ^lis ilreary den. 



lie had stru*;«;led bra\el\, without avail, 

h\>i now the paper was g'oin*;" to I'ail. 

'The piinters struek, anil the harsh blow broke 

The I'ditor's heart, with the lorce ot its stroke. 

He yielded at last — every resouree ended — 

And wrote this sad epitaph: "Paper Suspended." 



Otily a newspaper? Aye, there was more. 

Of iu-arl-aehe and iirief than e\'er before 

r\)uiul plaee m a life; and the editor wept 

SatI, silent tears, while the eareless world slept. 

Only a newspaper! Vet, with its life, 

Went lu»pe, and ambition, and strength, and all strife; 

v\ml there, like the blood (^\\ a battle-field red, 

.\n editor's i^reat aspirations lav dead. 



Then :in<! Now 



I IX)VK1) \ou onec — 'twas K)n«;- ago — 

'^ With pute nffeetion. tender; 

I ioNi'd \ou — aye, too well, 1 know, 

Thr K)\e my heart eould render. 
\ loved you — \vh\? pray ean you say.'' 

r»ve looked the wide world ()ver. 
And think \\\\ brain was daft that day, 

In ehoosinii" sueh a lo\er. 



141 



Then ami Not: 



\ chose 3'ou, and I loved yon then. 

With wealth of honest passion ; 
yVnd yet, you were, of all the men. 

The meanest, poorest fashion. 
You were not good, nor brave, nor true ; 

You were not even handsome ; 
And yet — strange freak — my love for you 

No irift of fate could ransom. 



'T was not your gold I cared for, no 1 

Had you been poor and hated. 
My lo\e had been more strong, I know, 

More firm and unabated. 
Ah, well.'' 'twas lonir and loni:" a^o — 

A girl is scarcely human ; 
I laugh that love to scorn — for know 

The irirl is now a woman. 



A w^oman ! And from clear, strong e3'cs, 

She looks on you with sorrow. 
As something she must still despise 

Though you should die to-morrow. 
PYom heights of scorn she looks on you, 

A wretched, pigmy creature — 
Small, mean and dwarfed your lieail does view 

And loathes its everv feature. 



And wonder, now, how it could be 

That she could once adore you. 
And smiles to think of love so true 

Thus casting pearls before you. 
This life must pass ; I wonder how 

You'll bear a day, now near us. 
With glare of judgment on vour brow. 

And only (i<)d to hear us. 



J.f2 



(hily S!i\'hino\ 



N(» siu'iM iii|L; sniik- will sor\c" \<'U tluMi ; 

No lii' <\\\\ \pii ilisi'ONc'i" 
To ;iitl \«>ii, toi llu" (li'c'tls ol iiu'ii 

Ale hail'. ^()U wrii' my l(>\rr. 
I I(t\t\l \i>ii — Oil, ihc luirnini;" sliMinc ! 

riu' wn'Uhcil, \N lUl iK\ i>l ion ! 
Ami //,';;' dcspis*.' \(>iu' M'ty naim- 

Willi all my lu-ait's rmolion. 

N'oii wciv, to jAai'lhoocTs t'vcs, a i;'()il ! 

Tlu- aiiL^v'ls scarct' abo\i- \i»ii. 
Till' woman srcs \iui jn^l a i'loil, 

Aiul louUI not, :v'<v//</ ttol , low \ou. 



( ^nl\ Slr^pm^'. 



iWntti'ii i>u tin- ili-alh >>l liillc I'lorcnci" Cdlil, ami DimIumIimI In lur I'jirowtsa 

'r^M I I'lKl'', is a lonn tli\int.\ all olhrr Umihs oxvcllini;" ; 

TluMv- is a raiiiani li!.:,h!, all otlu'f ra\s tlispcllin«;-, 
AVhirli nrai Nour ilailin;; k^wc, is KninL:' \\ atrh lunv 

ki\'|M II ^ ; 
Ami spiMks to \ oil iIk'.>c w oiils : '" Sht.' is not ilcail — 

hill sK-rpino-." 

l/ilo's way is \'orv short, tlu* nustir vril is lU'ar sou; 
I lush sorrow's dismal voice, an aiu;rl oar ma\- hoar 

u»ii ; 
K\mi whilo in ani;uish Joi'p, \oui hearts dissoho in 

worpin*;', 
l*'t)rt;\'t II. •! thai sweet \oiv-e, w liieii telis \ on : "She 

is sleepiiiii".'' 

llow ,sO(Hi, o'ei Hv-aihs daiL tide, \\>iir hoat ina\ ^'v), 

swill saihiii;'. 
To land wheii' joxs abide, and where tluM\" is no 

wailin**" ; 
\ i>ur loveil ^^\\c safe is there, in lli>< own earelul 

keeping ; 
Am! you will sa\ with io\ : " Slu- w a> \\o\ ilead hut 

sleepin*;/' 



Her All. 



J43 



llcr All. 

//V^lEN h;i\c' the w ulc world brtoii.' iIr-ui, 
/// ^ Tlu'v c-hoosc what prol'rssioii they will, 
Aiul ini\' in llu> slrit'i- ol battle, 

Aiul ri^lil with |)iix-isi()ii ami ^kill. 

Uut woman has onK her \iiliie, 
\\v she maiden, or widow, or wile, 

;\nd this she should t^iiard iVem eoniiption, 
1 1' \\<^ck\ be — b\- L;'ivin,U' her lile. 

Men lo\e liki- the simoon, which withei's 
'I'he lile ol the s\\'eet loicsl tiees, 

()lt times. So 1h' miaicled, ( ), woman I 
I''rom passions unhoI\ like tlu-st'. 

F()|- woman has onl\ her \irtiie — 
This _L;"one, she is like llu- lost souls 

'I'hal ha\e jxissed tlu- datk ^ates oi perdition, 
Where liei-ec" llame eternall\' rolls. 



Men's lo\e is, alas! ol't a passion. 

lhnv()rth\- his manhood ; impun- 
As the death-brccdini;- branch ol tlu- upas, 

Whose poison no doetoi" ean enre. 

A woman has only her \irtue. 

But O, the swei-t knowled,<:;e of this 

Makes her hraw, and endows her with eoura^c, 
And Li'ives her a leelin'j, ol' bliss! 



144 Sarcil by (rracc. 

Saved B\' (irace. 

I From ;u I liicidriit wlilch occiiiit-il at Ihc I uiou Sci-v ice at I!i" Oliiu Slrcct Mci liii,li>t 

(.'liiir'cli.l 

jf'HK was old and bowed, and licr hair was white, 
^ Init her faee was sw^eet, with its smile of love. 
And I watehed her there in the mellow liijht. 
And thought of the peaee we shall find above. 
She stood in her place, and the house ij^rew still. 
And eurioiis eyes sought her white, worn face, 
As she, in a Noice of tremulous thrill, 
Spoke soft and low of the Master's grace. 

She did not da right, but was sure she tried 

To live in tlie ways of a Christ-taught 1()\ e ; 

All self-exaltation she put aside. 

And trusted her cause to the One above. 

I listened, and tears sprang into my eyes. 

For this was the talk of a Christian true, 

Tlie spirit of faith, and of sacrifice. 

With all self-righteousness liidden from n ie\\ . 

I had barkened before to the voice of those 
Who li\ed without sin, and who boasted 1(Hk1 
Of their s]-)irit's grace, and their soul's repose. 
And their patent of righteousness, self endowed. 
But this tender heart had, for fifty \cars. 
Trusted and pra\ed. in a quiet way. 
And '"tried to do right" in this \ ale of tears, 
^ et had not of "holiness" one word to sa}'. 

"Have mercy,'" the cr\- of the publican old. 

Is all that the best of us ought to plead ; 

The Pharisee's call, *' behold me. behold," 

Is threadbare, and shows only weakness and need. 



ii'e(7ry. /^J 

Despair. 

flHI There is iiKiny a dark hour, 
^ When the spirit weeps alone; 
Many a sad Gethsemane, 

Where sorrow makes her moan. 
The scoffer scoffs, and mockers mock ; 

What does it matter there? 
Can these a wounded spirit shock, 
Wliicli only feels despair? 

Tlie sneers, and jibes, and jests of man. 

Too high, or low, they fall. 
To touch the heart with anguish dumb, 

Neath sorrow's heavy pall. 
The world laughs out its careless laugh, 

Pla3'S on its tiresome game. 
While some the cup of sadness quaff, 

Nor heed its praise or blame. 

Take the great, heartless, pulseless world. 

And press it t;) your breast : 
With gayest banners all unfurled, 

Prav, can it L^ive you rest? 
Fame, and gold, all earthly things ; 

StriN'e, win the highest cast ; 
Sit near the throne of queens and kings, 

Then die. unblest at last. 



w 



can' 



I ]MAY be wrong, but it seems to me 

Tiiat the rippling wash of the Gallilee, 
As the whispering winds stir its silver breast. 
Would soothe my soul to a sacred rest. 

I often think, far better for me. 
The rest which will last through eternity, 
Than all its glories, its crowns, and palms. 
That are worn and born b}- holier hands. 



I4(> Words cnid Deals. 

I'm weary of pomp, and of earthly strife. 
It seems that, be3ond, in the other Hfe, 
A something of this, just its glare and din. 
With the harping, and palms, would enter in. 

And sometimes Tve dared to earnestly pray 
For future rest, and to solemnl)- say, 
*' The glittering walls of the golden street 
Would wear}' my e3-es, and tire m\ feet.'' 

One knoweth all hearts who will judge us fair! 
And may be, when we have gone over there. 
We shall leave our weariness all this side, 
And with His wisdom be satisfied. 




Words and Deeds. 



^ORDS, though high sounding, are empty, 

The}' cost little effort to gain ; 
But deeds bind up broken life-chords. 
And ease a heart's burden of pain. 

''I love you," to sa}' this, how easv ; 

Deeds alone prove the worth of the words ; 
'' Tm sorry," no effort this costs you, 

'Tis free as the sino-ino- of birds. 

Words e'er ma}' be justly distrusted 

When deeds do not prove them quite true ; 

And though one repeats oft "I love you,-^ 
Grave doubts may come sadh' in view. 

Deeds help when the heart is in anguish. 
Deeds aid when the mind is oppressed ; 

Deeds give when mere words cry '' so sorry. 
Deeds always relieve, the distressed. 



ti 



Whifc Sails. 147 

<< • 

White Sails. 

TELL me, friend — 3'oiir eyes are clearer, 
Younger, brighter far than mine — 
If the white-sailed boat draws nearer 
From the far off Eden clime? 

Through this mist of tears, I'm trying 

To look out across the wave, 
And to see the pennons flying 

From the mast-head, proud and brave. 

I am weary from much weeping, 

And the' boat seems drifting slow. 
While long vigil I am keeping, 

Where the shadows linger so. 



Once I thought this world a hea\en ; 

Once I saw bright flowers grow. 
But they withered, and my Eden 

Changed to ofra^•es beneath the snow. 

Tell me, friend — you who have pity 
For the wild bird's mournful note, 

Can you see the mystic city. 

Where the while-sailed barges float? 

Do you think they soon are coming. 
O'er the foam-cjipped silver sear 

Will they hear a sad voice humming 
On the winds, and stop for me? 

You can tell- them how I'm weeping, 
Near the shore, so blind with tears. 

That the white sail I am seeking 
Never to my view appears. 

Tell them to make haste, and find me. 
Tell them how I long to go. 

And this world leave far behind me. 
With its deary pain and w(:e. 



j^S July 4fh, iSSs- 

July 4th, 1885. 

I WONDER how many will think, to-dav. 
* Of Valley Forge, of Bunker Hill ; 
Of Washington, kneeling in snow to pi'a}', 
There, in the dark woods, gray and chill? 

r wonder if any one thinks, just now, 

Of a patriot's grave, somewhere in our land, 

Where lies the dust of a noble man's brow. 

And the ashes white, of his once strong hand. 

There were sa\age foes, and traitorous friends, 

Privations and agon}' seldom known, 
Men were stri\ing for all this dav portends ; 

Yet how many think of the seeds then sown. 

The harvest we reap is plent}-, and peace ; 

These cities, and towns, and broad acres of grain ; 
A nation, from tyranny given release. 

All were bought with the blood of brave men slain. 

Then let the '"bonnie blue flag" float free. 

Over ever}' house in all this land ; 
And let the scepter of Liberty, 

Be borne aloft by each trusty hand. 

Our children's children must never forget, 

How fared the brave hearts, which bled for them ; 

And we, 'till the last glowing sun shall set. 
Will tell this history over a^rain. 



? 



Deceit. 

liE azure of a cloudless sky. 

Is mirrored where white lilies lie ; 
The placid calm of forest stream 
Is soft, as fancies of a dream. 
Yet down below is ooze, and slime, 
And vile things, in the mud and grime ; 
Sweetly the smile on dainty lips. 
Suggests the bloom where wild bee sips. 

The tender light of beauty's eye 
Suo^o-ests a dell where daisies sigh. 
Yet in the heart are creeping things, 
V'^enomous, and with poison stings. 
That hide away within the gloom. 
Like charnel worms in some old tomb. 
Deceit rules monarch of the place ; 
And lurks 'neath smiles, on beauty's face. 



She Loved Hini. 

"HE loved him — alas! with a woman's love, 
A mingling sweet of passion and jxiin. 

Her heart went out like a snow-white dove ; 
Wounded and black, it returned again. 

She loved him — alas! He had wooed so well 
That her life was his ; and there, in his hand 

He held a poor heart that rose and fell. 

As he, in his careless wa^^ might command. 

She loved him — alas ! So her's was the sin ; 

The world saw no stain on his garments white, 
Her life was lost in the whirlpool's din ; 

He danced with the best at the ball, last nio-ht. 



J5'' 



Lines. — The Sinixcr. 



I.UU'S 

iWiilli'U ill Miiiioiy of Lit lie l.iuy l>:ill>.v.l 

'KUI^. she has ^->nc Id otlicr scones. 

No inoiv can pain her footsteps trace; 
CMose to the Master's heart, she leans, 
Ami kni)\vs that heart's inTuiite i^-race. 

IVace broods with white \vin_us wliere she walks. 

And Lo\ e is near her always now. 
With ano'cl bands she moves and talks. 

The lii^'ht ot" lulen on her brow. 

Transj-ilanted I'roni a world ot" i^rief, 

lake a sweet llower, she blooms abo\e, 

Where si>rrow's frost ne'er scars a leat. 
And where the atnu^sphere is lo\e. 

No breath of sin touched her youn^ life ; 

Pure as the anii-els she went liome. 
And waits, away from human strife. 
Vox parents dear, antl friemls, to come. 

Our loved ones aie not K>st — ah. no! 

SaiwI are the\- fn^m all grief, ami pain ; 
Froni sin, from sufferinj;- and wi)e. 

Who would recall them here, aixainr 



1 1k" Sino\M". 

KJf^"' did not heed his simple soni;-, 
^ When thro' the aii- "t was ringing; 
We dill not jxiuse, but passcil along 
As it we heanl wo siniriuLi". 

And yet he sung — it was his right — 
A tuneful throat was given ; 

And so he sent, with all his might. 
His music up to iieaven. 



I'Or Von. i^i 

lie piped of birds, of trees, of dowers; 

Such common tliinj^s, fore\er, 
lie sometimes siin^- of summer showers, 

l->ut of ureat battles — nexcr. 

We always scoffed the little la\ , 

We ditl not care to hear him. 
And often wished him fai" away — 

()uite \e.\ed to be so near him. 

But ah ! one da\- his \ oice was mute ; 

We felt a thi-iil of sorrow, 
;\nd missed the notes, like tender lute. 

For many a sad to-morrow. 

Anil thus oft times, in life's dull wa\s. 

We will not see the pleasme. 
Low hidinsj; in these simple lays, 

Until time steals the treasure. 



Im)]" You. 

^,01i^S an\' one watch your comini;-. 
When da\ , with its labor is o'er.-' 
Is there an\' face at the window. 
Ox peepinjj; thio' half open door.-' 

Do an\- white arms cliuL;' about 3'ou.'' 
Or an\- warm lips jii^ess Nour own? 

Of one who could not li\e without 3-ou 
Who si<^hs foi- \()ui' presence alone."' 

If "tis so. \"ou are blest, oh, brothei', 
TIkj" toil la\s a tribute t)f care, 

A weai'isome burden, and hea\\" — 

^'ou ha\e one \our burdens to share. 

And you know in this world, so dreary. 
There be.ats one heart forever quite true ; 

That feels all tlie pain, when \ou sorrow. 
And thi'obs on with lo\e jtisf for \oii . 




/,-.. To J//,v. //. M. W. 

To Mrs. H. x\l. W. 

I Of Warreiisliiir;.'. Me. 1 

flMONG the list of faithful friends, 
^ Thy name stands true, and tried. 
Not one is higher on the roll. 
Or nearer to my side. 

'X\\\ noble heart greets friendship's trust 
With warmer beat than some. 

And on our record is no rust. 
Where doubt has ever come. 

No sister now is left to me ; 

And }et thy spirit's grace 
Is such, that with affection free, 

"S'ou till a sister's place. 

Your gentle heart throbs tenderly 

And I almost forget 
When thinking of thy lo\e, and thee, 

M\- sister to regret. 

'Tis man\- a \ear since first we pledged 

Our fealtN' for a test. 
And I have ne\er spurned the trust 

Or loNcd another best. 

As Damon was to Pythias, 

So thou hast been to nie. 
And naught has e'er \et .se\ ered us, 

Or turned my heart from thee 

"Twin sisters," have we often said. 

In sportive jest and ph'^y. 
Vet "women cannot love" — "tis said 

Bv men — as well as the}-. 

We prc)\e the falseness of the charge. 

As others oft have done, 
For women have most loyal hearts. 

E'er found 'neath heaven's sun. 



A Picture. i^j 

A Picture. 



I HAVE on my wall, a picture, 
^ Of a lady, very fair, 



With a smile, such as happ)' children 

Are ever wont to wear ; 
Though her brow is seamed with wrinkles 

And snow-white her silken hair. 

She sits in a low, deep rocker, 

With a Bible in her hand. 
And she wears soft, filmy laces, 

And a cap of ribbon band ; 
And she is, I think, the sweetest, 

Fairest lad}' in the land. 

Her life is full of holiness, 

All the lowly love her name ; 

The}' find her — when in deep distress — 
Find her always, just the same; 

AVith many words of comforting, 
But ne'er a word of blame. ^ 



I have known her vears, and loved her, 
But, alas ! the time draws near, 

AVhen she must go away from us. 
To a better, brighter sphere ; 

Where the frost of dreary winters. 
Never turn the green leaves sere. 

I think you will know this picture. 
With its simple, child-like grace ; 

E'en though I have but poorly drawn 
The lines of her sweet face. 

Which beams with smile so tender. 
From below a cap of lace. 



7j^ Something- Cheerful. 

When these weary days are ended, 
When low sinks the evening sun ; 

And our night of earth is blended, 
With the glorious rising sun ; 

May we each, like Grandma Kullmer, 

Hear some kind voice say: ''Well done." 



Something Cheerful. 

fO\J tell me to write " something cheerful," 

To please you I vainly essay ; 
But days dismal, lonely and tearful. 

Overshadow ni}' saddened pathway. 

If you can create, from the ashes, 

A heart for me, tender and new, 
I will write you the cheeriest poem. 

Of things ever faithful and true. 

But a bird, with its wings torn and bleeding, 

Feels only the throbbing of pain ; 
While far toward the sky, fast receding, 

The lark trills a joyous refrain. 

The wounded bird hides in the bushes. 
And pipes out its weary complaint; 

'Till somebody frightens, and hushes. 
These snd notes so mournful and faint. 

The sorrows of life, which have cost me 
Such pangs, as the lost spirits know ; 

The tempests and storms which have tossed me, 
And left me a wreck here below. 

Oh, friend! If you these can send %ing 

Away, on some lethean wave, 
I can write cheerful songs without trying; 

Songs noble, and restful, and brave. 



A Broken Shell. j^r 

A Broken Shell. 

II HAVE heard that 'tis an omen 
* Evil, if we break 
Any trifle given only 

For sweet friendship's sake. 

Thinkino; thus, I view the frao-nients 

Of this pretty shell, 
Saying to my heart, "'tis over — 

Friendship's holy spell." 

And I whisper, 'Mife has sunshine. 

Yet the storm must come ; 
Trusting hearts know deepest sorrow, 

Shadow follows sun." 



Looking at this ruined treasure, 

In a helpless way, 
I am lost, and walk the sea strand 

As on that bright day. 

And again, I hear the white waves 

Break a<j;ainst the shore : 
And 3-our voice is heard in whisper 

Through the wild waves' roar. 

You are saying, oh, so gently: 

"Keep the shell alwa}' ; 
As a small, but dear memento. 

Of this blissful day." 

Now I wake and see these fragments, 

Knowing all is o'er. 
And that friendship now is severed. 

Aye, forever more. 

And I hear a mournful sighing; 

Is it wounded faith ? 
Or sweet friendship, slowly dying, 

Or dead friendship's wraith ? 






1^6 To my Daughter. 

To My Daughter. 

^ISTEN, my daughter, cease weeping 
The lessons of life you must learn 

Be brave, in the truth ever keeping, 

Though heart oft with anguish may burn. 

Tis better to suffer much sorrow, 

Than herd with the base and the low, 

Though sunshine defer its to-morrow, 
And happiness comes very slow. 

You weep, and I grieve with you ever. 

My pathway through life's marked with tears, 

I would shield you from anguish forever, 
But honor must never know fears. 

Remember, my child, that ^-our mother, 
Would rather herself close her eyes, 

Than that you the truth should e'er smother, 
For ever so costly a prize. 

Never care for the blame of a rabble, 
Whose hats would go up any day. 

For the popular side of the babble. 
No matter what justice might say. 

Listen, my daughter, cease weeping, 
I hear the low moan of the waves, 

Of a sea rolling onward forever. 
Forever o'er newly made graves. 



In Meiiioriam. 1^7 

In Memonam. 

lOculiCcited to j\Vis. S. .!. Slurdcviint, of yc-ottsville, Wyoming Comity, J'a-1 

^OU tell me your Charlie has left yon ; 
^ Has crossed the dark river, so chill ; 
And you mourn since grim Death has bereft you. 
With heart-pain that never is still. 

Your iirst-born — your eldest, you tell me, 
In words that are sadder than tears; 

And I can, in sympathy, send you 

No comforting thought; for the years 

Run heavy and chill, and the sorrow 

Of earth is a wearisome pain. 
Clouds lower to-day, yet to-morrow 

We may have the sunshine again. 

There's a path leading up from the river, 

Away on the other shore, 
And those walking there feel no shiver 

Of heart-ache, or pain, evermore. 

This thought is most surely a blessing — 

Even death is a boon in disguise. 
Cease, mother, your tears, so distressing, 

And turn toward heaven, your eyes. 

There is peace I There is joy! Aye, forever! 

vSad mother, look up ! Trust the Lord ! 
Trust the promise of one who has never 

Yet broken his Infinite Word. 



1^8 After T^venty Tears. 

After Twenty Years. 

"Tell that her Handwriting is still Visible on the Walls of the Old Home, 

After Twenty \^id.vA ."—Extract From a Letter. 

CAN it be so long ago, 
f And is this hand the same, 
Which pencils now these tear-stained lines, 
That wrote there then a name ? 

Is life so cold, and dull a thing ? 

Do sorrows so abound 
That we forget the merry spring 

With flowers all around ? 

Your letter takes me back again ; 

I am a child once more ; 
I see again the forest lane, 

The Susquehanna's shore ; 

And all the old-time happiness 

Comes, as a ghost long dead, 
To brintr me not a sweet caress — 

But sorrow's crown instead. 

I see the girls — sweet Etta S., 

Bright Kate, dear " Little Em," 
Each formed, some loving heart to bless, 

Yet Death has taken them. 

Why is it said that men forget 

The love of early years ? 
I know your heart is tender 3'et, 

Your eyes oft filled with tears. 

For that sweet girl, so snatched away 

From near the altar's side — 
Taken, almost the ver}^ <^hay, 

She would have been your bride. 



After T~venty Tears. /jp 

You've bought the dear old lann, 30U say, 

My grandsire toiled to own ; 
It should have held our name to-day — 

It should have been the home 

Of child or grandchild ; woe is me ! 

The heavy blight which came 
To us, w^as w^rath — do you not see — 

We sold it from the, name. 

The Asa S. — tifth in the line 

From grandsire 's day to ours ; 
Born in Missouri's chans^eful clime. 

Should dwell amid those bowsers. 

Alas ! we sold the sacred spot, 

And father's resting-place 
Is here 'mong strangers, half forgot. 

'Tis shame and sore disgrace. 

They're resting there, parents and all 

Their sons, save father dear, 
And one, just one, who still survives — 

Dear friend, forgive this tear. 

It is not that I blame or chide ; 

No fault was there, I own ; 
And 3'et ni}^ grief I cannot hide, 

When thinking of that home. 

Your letter brings the past to me. 

From out the distant years. 
It brings the changeless destin}' 

And sorrow's fruitless tears. 



l6o D Isqu ief. — Tritsf. 

Disquiet. 

%^E rail at the things which are, 
W From the unquietness within ; 
The world must be all ajar, 
Because we are full of sin. 

We heed not the sweet, clear lake, 
And for the broad ocean cry^ 

We leave the cold spring to slake 
Our thirst in a stream rushing b}'. 

The gems that we have are not 
The jewels we wish to wear ; 

The love, all our own, is naught, 
We spurn it, with little care. 

And thus, forever unblcst, 
We go our \arious ways, 

And never know peace nor rest, 
To the end of our wretched davs. 



Trust. 

^HEN the evening shadows lengthen, and the stars 
Low mingle 'mid the lakelet's silver bars; 
When the apple blossoms bend. 
And their sweetest fragrance send 
On the south-wind's fluttering wing to me, afar, 
O, then I think of you. 
And deem you fondly true. 
No matter where within the world vou are. 

When the mornins^ sunlis^ht brio-htens, and I stand 
Where the blue summer skylight tints the land ; 

When the song-birds twitter low, 

And the early roses blow 
Sweeter fragrance o'er the em' raid meadow heath; 

O, then I think of you, 

And deem you fond and true. 
Though silence rests between us, still as death. 



The Pitying Angel. i6i 

The Pitying Angel. 

['• This is ;i Hard World for c;irls."— Jia?-fiH L.uUivv.'] 

KHERE is an angel passing thro' the land — 
^ A pitying angel, as I understand — 
Who, in his arms oft clasps and bears away 
Our darlings, to a fairer, brighter day. 

He steps within the humble cottage door, 
And scans the tender nestlings o'er and o'er. 
The sweetest, and the fairest, claims he then. 
And bears her swift away from haunts of men. 

He does not scorn a mansion, full of light. 
But visits scenes of dazzling splendor bright. 
And recently a fair, angelic child 
He took away — as sweet a one as ever smiled. 

The mother in the cottage, weeps sad tears ; 
The mother in the mansion would give years 
Of earthly glory, pomp and selfish pride. 
To have "in "health a little girl who died. 

O, mother in the cottage, dry your eyes ; 
What could you give your child of Paradise? 
W^hat promise held you of her happiness? 
Better for her Azrael's dread caress. 

0, mother in the mansion, do not weep ; 

The honr draws near when you must coldly sleep. 

Is it not better for your tears to fall 

On her sweet face, than hers to damp your pall? 

Poor, saddened mothers ! For 30ur pain I weep ; 

1, mine own night-long anguish vigils keep — 
Yet I rejoice, because I truly know. 

Your precious ones can ne\-er suffer so. 

This world, which is a most deceitful thing, 
And wounds our hearts, can ne'er one tear-drop bring 
To those sweet eyes, as bright as gleaming stars; 
No shadow ever Heaven's brightness mars. 



i62 Thy Will Be Done. 

May Christ's sweet pity comfort you and }ours ; 
The pain will last while pulse and life endures ; 
But still remember, for 3'our child, 'tis best — 
Eternal freedom, peace, and perfect rest. 



Thy Will Be Done. 

jlgJSTENING, with attentive ear, 

Unheeding discord — ever near — 
Some sa}' 'tis fancy — yet I hear 
A loving voice. 

It seems to come from everywhere ; 
I hearken here, and listen there. 
While still it sio-hs alono- the air. 
And I rejoice. 

A tone so sweet was never heard 
From throat of mortal, or of bird, 
And oft I catch a tender word. 
But just a breath. 

It tells me of the strano-est things. 
Of other lands — a land of kinoes, 
And bids me, in a tone that rings, 
To think of Death. 

And so I think, and dream, alway 
Of fairer skies, and brighter da}-. 
Until I almost catch a ray 
Of Eden's Sun. 

But when I murmur, or despair, 
I hear that soft voice everywhere, 
Whispering o'er and o'er this prayer 
"Thy will be done." 




To Idyf/. — ill reconciled. i6j 

To Idyll. 

OU ask me to act as your critic? 
You sure cannot mean what you say ! 
You, who sail o'er the broad ocean, 
To one who but knows the still bay. 

The wren cannot fly with the condor, 

The wild blossoms, growing 'neath trees, 

Can see with great wide eyes of wonder, 
Mao-nolias swinoj in the breeze. 

Your muse has the true step and measure. 
While mine still goes halting along; 

A few friends say, for my pleasure : 

'' I was really quite charmed with your song. 

The moon's pale reflection on water, 

Is never so bright, or so strong, 
As the moon shining high — fair daughter — 

You will wait for my fault-tinding long. 



1? 



Unreconciled. 



jiEAVE me alone, with my sorrow, 
^ The wild winds of winter may moan. 
And I shall be better, to-morrow — 
I pray you to leave me alone. 

Leave me alone with my sorrow, 

You know not, for how should you know. 

The pain of the poor wounded sparrow? 
'Tis as dumb as I, in my woe. 

Leave me alone with my sorrow, 

I ask not for pity nor care. 
For words — which my woes do but harrow — 

I have not one trouble to share. 



164 O fended. 

Leave me alone with ni}' sorrow, 
My griefs are ni}' own, as you see; 

And I shall be better to-morrow. 
And then 3-011 can speak unto me. 



Offended. 



WONDER, if it still will matter, 
As the years go floating b}', 
Whether you were pleased, or angiy ? 
Whether glad or sorr^•, I ? 

You were angry at a trifle, 

I was proud, and did not care ; 

So we passed, and were as strangers— 
Never greeting, an3'where. 

I think, sometimes, of the future, 

And can see the coffin lid. 
And below are frozen faces, 

'Neath the linen napkins hid. 

But 1 cannot speak. I will not. 

Pride, my lips has sealed quite dumb \ 
For I think your causeless anger. 

From your own dark thoughts has come, 

I shall go ni}' wa}^ in silence. 

And forget you in a year; 
E'en 3'our form, and face — each feature — 

AVhich I once had held so dear. 

This, the last thought I shall give you. 
Though the last, I trul}^ know. 

You were wrong to let a trifle 
Burn 3^our heart, and vex you so. 



Uncle Damon. — Af Rest. 165 

Uncle Damon. 

[In Mcmoriaiii.l 

FITTING where the twihght shadows, 

Purple toward the glowing west ; 
I ha\e read that *•'• Uncle Damon 

Knows the bliss of perfect rest." 

Read the words, with tear drops falling — 

Not for him the tears, sad flow, 
But the past and future, calling, 

Conflict and confuse me so. 

''Uncle Damon!" I remember 

His kind face and gentle wa3's ; 
And his mild voice, low and tender. 

Haunts me from the far off da3-s. 

Last of that large band of brothers. 

Last of all the band, save one; 
And she, too, will join the others, 

Ere a score of ^ears have run. 

Thus it is, and was forever — 

Dear ones come, and loved ones go. 

Death, the firmest bands will sever; 
Life goes like a river's flow. 

Soon forgotten, with our fathers. 

We, who fret and sorrow now — 
Will be resting in some valley, 

With the heaped earth o'er our brow. 



At Rest. 

[Ill Memory ol' little Leo Howard. 1 

|^)ITTLE Leo is at rest, 
— ^ And with angels singing- ; 
In the chorus of the blest. 
Is her sweet voice rin<ring. 



J 66 The Reason. 

Little Leo — loving, fair — 
Friends will sadly miss her; 

It is better for her, there 
Where the angels kiss her. 

Little Leo — tears will fall, 
For I knew and loved her; 

Resting 'neath a sombre pall 
With the sk}^ above her. 

Little Leo — no, ah, no! 

Skies are far below her. 
And she hears the Jordan flow, 

With no dark clouds o'er her. 

Plant white roses on her grave, 
We must not foi-ofet her ; 

Tears will oft the blossoms lave — 
Much shall we regret her. 

Little Leo is at rest. 

We shall mourn and miss her ; 
Yet for her, "tis surely best — 

Home, where angels kiss her. 



The Reason. 



I") 



pOU question: Why write I ''so sadly? 
You say I have joy, and am blest. 
Ah, 3'es, as the world sees, m}- burdens 
Are light, and I should have rest. 

Did 3'ou ever walk out in the forest — , 

To the pine woods, deep, dismal and dark? 

With the shadows eternall}^ over. 
And all the weird loneliness mark? 

You see, there is never a blossom 

Because of the shadowy gloom : 
Not a leaflet, or blade, springing upward — 

All dead, as the dead in a tomb. 



Sundered i6y 

Well, one da}-, before the chill shadows 

Drove sunshine away from the sod, 
There were flowers of wond'rous beaut}', 

Lifting bright faces to God. 

Bvit the shadows crept over and killed them. 

So onl}' the sighing of pine 
Is heard in the dismal old forest. 

Now read you this symbol of mine? 

""The sorrows are past;" A3e, I grant you. 

But their traces will ever remain ; 
And thus, 'neath the chords, there is alwa3-s 

The sad under-current of pain. 



Sundered. 



\t<, i>[ 



II^OU can never regain what you've lost; 
Your life from my service is free ; 
I've counted the weal and the cost. 
And find \'0u are ncjthing to me. 

There was a time when a word, a look, 
Sent rapturous thrill through my heart; 

My love could be read as a book, 
But now we have drifted apart. 

It was not, perhaps, by neglect. 
Nor was it by dark anger's frown. 

Yet someway I ceased to expect 

From Love, either blessing or crown. 

It was a mistake. That is all ! 

Mistakes have occurred oft before ; 
My heart has turned bitter, like gall ; 

Its passion forever is o'er. 

Our paths — now divided — still run 

In parallel lines, wide apart, 
Yours warm with the glow of the sun. 

Mine bleak with the o^loom in my heart. 



j6S Ansiver to a Letter. 

Good-b3'e ! God speed your career ! 

May your life never know weary pain ; 
I can yet wnsh you this, though 'tis clear, 

I never can greet you again. 



Answer to a Letter. 

AN it be true that words of mine 

Sound ""brave, and strong, and bold," 
That, when you read "each rh3'thmic line, 

Your courage takes new hold?" 
O, friend of mine ; 30U do not know 
How sorrows ebb, how sorrows flow. 

I'm brave! Ah, yes, I think 'tis true; 

This world to me has done all ill, 
And brought all pain it e'er can bring, 

And now m}' heart is calm, and still; 
And I can face with placid brow, 
The wildest storms ofanguish now.. 

Why should we cower, shrink, or quail? 

AVh}' should we weep, when tears are vain? 
Is it not best to face the gale? 

In cowardice, where is the gain? 
This world will crush, with cruel tread. 
The victim low, who bows his head. 

If words of mine have done you good. 
How glad am I those words were said ; 

There should be strength in womanhood. 
There should be courage, without dread. 

The sweetest promises of heaven, 

And best, are unto woman o;iven. 



Mcorial. i6g 

Memorial. 

^"HE leaves are turning sere again ; 
^^ Another year has gone ; 
The sky weeps ehilhng drops of rain 
Upon the sodden lawn. 

There is no melody of birds ; 

No flowers are bloomins: brisrht : 
The very trees speak woeful words, 

To the cold autumn night. 

The dreary landscape seems oppressed, 
The earth looks bleak and bare ; 

Quite empty Jiangs the wild bird's nest; 
No trace of life is there. 

And empty is the cradle bed. 

Where once a little child 
Rolled restlessly its prett\' head. 

And in sweet beauty smiled. 

A grave now holds that little one, 

A dark grave, lone and deep. 
And on it shines the autumn sun. 

And wild storms 'round it weep. 

She was our treasure; oh, the pain. 

Those heav}^ days do give ; 
We live our sorrows o'er again. 

And wonder how we live. 

For wlicn the heart feels bitter woe, 

The days should all be fair; 
Else Time goes on v^nth foot-steps sJbw, 

And with him walks Despair. 

We know or<r dead are sleeping well; 

We know t-liey are at rest. 
And yet what pen the grief can telk 

Which tills our :ichin:r breast.' 



ijo ^Nesfions. — A Grave. 

Questions. 

||0 you think, if I stood by 3-our side to-day, 

And nestled my hand in your own, 
While the shadows were steah ng, hea\y and gra}', 

To where we stood, silent alone. 
You would ever unsay the harsh things you said, 

Or believe 3'ou had done me wrong ? 
My eyes are dim with tears unshed. 
And my heart aches all day long. 

Do you think you would ever kiss me again, 

In the passionate way, as of old? 
Or smooth from my brow the shadow of pain. 

And whisper the vows oft told ? 
I am wear}' to-day, and I long to rest 

My head on your breast once more. 
And to hear you say, "I love you best,' 

As you did in day of 3'ore. 

But I forget how the chill years run. 

Between 3'our life and my own ; 
So heavy and dark, oft hiding the sun. 

And leaving us always alone. 
I loved 3'ou so I The passionate pain 

Of ni}' love will never grow less. 
And 3'et I know there is nothing to gain 

in revealing mv heart's distress. 



5? 



AG 



rave. 



.^ilERIi'S a flaw in the woof of cur friendship; 
-^ A cloud mars the blue of the sky ; 
There's a rift in life's tenderest music. 
Its chords onh^ echo a sigh. 

There's a coffin and shroud for the old days, 
We'll bury them out of our sight; 

Yet out of the gloom may 'come sun-rays, 
And radiance out of the niorht. 



Thcji. 

I ii.ue learned of the cruel world's teaching-, 

And paid m^- tuition in tears — 
Have scorned all its false, hollow preaching, 

And suffered the pain of its sneers. 

While all the time, there, in the irloaminir. 
Was waiting a grave, dark and chill — 

A place where is never heard moaning, 
Where all our heart passions are still. 

So the past we will bury forever, 

In a narrow, mysterious grave ; 
"Fis earth's dearest mission to sever 

All hearts. Let the foolish ones rave. 



/// 



Th 



en, 



%. 



'HEN the waters cold, of the silent sea. 
Are sending their billowy waves o'er me ; 
When shadow and sunshine blends into glow, 
How fondl}- I loved \-ou — then vou will know. 

When, limp and chill, lie the hands you have pressed. 
Folded fore\er o\'cr pulseless breast. 
When closed are my eyes to earth's heavy woe. 
How deepl}- I loved you — then you will know. 

When dumb are m}' lips to so;-row\s lament. 
When all around me is changeless content. 
When on my grave falls the rain and the snow% 
How truly 1 loved you — then vou will know. 

And when we shall stand, .-it the judgment day. 
And tremblingly hear the words He shall sav. 
While rippling near does the Gallilee flow. 
How purely I loxed \ou — then vou will know. 



iy2 A Passing Thouglif. — Forever. 



A Passinii" Thoiiuht. 

IP^ARTII has its measure of gladness; 

'--^ Midnight but heralds the morn ; 
Joy soothes the sorrow of sadness, 
'Till happiness wins the forlorn. 
Storms often sweep from the mountain. 
Filling our hearts with despair: 
Stars, mirrorYl bright in the fountain, 
Calm our importunate prayer. 

Earth has a measure of gladness. 

But has its full measures of woe. 

And rieaven, 'tis said, has no sadness. 

And vet — when our little ones go — 

We mourn as without consolation. 

And question — with hearts full of pain — 

Oft saying in grief's desolation, 

''We must have our darling again/' 

Each life — bright or dark — has its ending. 
The flow of a dread, silent streanl- 
Toward which all footsteps are tending, 
Is nearer, perchance, than we dream ; 
'Tis wise to reflect — uncomplaining; 
We go like the poor broken leaf. 
Yet Heaven — sweet promises raining — 
Soothes even this bitterest Lirief. 



I"^()rc\'cr. 

WORD so strange, so full of ;'.we. 
Shall Time c"cr bend \'ou to his law."" 
Shall hearts united once more sexer 

Not so — A'TV lasts (if trr.r) forever 



T- -^ 



The Baby Slunv. jjj 

I1ic Bab}' Show. 

fIS Time on the wing g-oes hunting b}- — 
* We know how inclined arc the moments to fl}- ; 
He will leave us a record that ages may know, 
That once there was given a grand babv show. 

And tlie record will say in the sagest of lore: 
"'Once on a time, in the }-ear eightj^-four. 
In a beautiful town, on the broad prairie i^-reen, 
There was given the loveliest fair ever seen."' 

"For there, in a nice, shaded park, were three-score 
Of sweet little children. Oh, ves I There were more — 
A great man)- more, of dear little things. 
Exactly like angels without any wini^s." 

'"There were babies tin}-, and babies tall, 
Babies lieav}-, and babies small ; 
Blue-eyed darlings, as fair as the snow, 
And brown-c^-ed ones, at the baby show.'' 

" There were little, toddling tots, in white. 
With faces shining almost as bright 
As those about which we somewhere read — 
A wonderful, wonderful sight indeed I'' 

''There were babies with tine, soft, golden hair, 
And brown-haired beauties as lo\ely, were there; 
There were curls, and frizzes, and bangs — dear me, 
Such a witching assembb.- \"ou never did see!*"' 

" Such daintv white dresses of 'broidery and lace, 
Worn with such infantile sweetness and grace; 
Such ribbons, such caps as were worn at this show. 
Were dreamed of or fashioned in Eden, I know.''' 

" They came with their mammas, and nurses, and 

friends. 
And with them such visions as Paradise lends ; 
Good natured, and smiling, and dimpled, were they — 
A be\'\" of cherubs, assembled that day."' 



ly^ A Memory. 

"And I think, o'er their innocent heads, in the air, 
A chorus of singers from Jlden was there ; 
And I think that the Master was near them, as when 
Of okl, lie remembered the ehiUlren of men, 

This will the record of Father Time be, 
When we are asleep near the river or sea ; 
And many will read in the future, 1 know. 
The tale of Sedalia, and this baby show. 



15 



A Memory. 

■ !)i'ilic:i1r(l ti) Mrs. M. IJ. | 

SOMETIME, when the leaves show the yellow and red, 
^ And the sky has the haze of soft autumn weather. 
When the plover whirrs swift through the leaves over- 
head, 
Will you think of the day you and 1 passed together? 

AVill you remember the blossoms of purple and white. 
We culled from the way-side and bound fast together. 

Our pleasant ride home, in the waning twilight. 

Well laden with snowdrop, blue asters and heatlicrr 

Will N'ou think of the call at the small white gate. 
And the sunny-e^•ed matron who came there to 
«reet us ; 
Our stay till the shadows said — warning — "'tis late,*' 
And the moon, o'er tree tops, seemed coming to 
meet us? 

I^ife hath its duties, its sorrows, its pleasures ; 

Its aims, aspirations — disappointing at best — 
But nature in autumn overladen with treasures, 

Will oft lift the weisrht from a sorrowful breast. 



Tlie UtHtcrcurreiit . — Beyond. jy^ 

The Undercurrent. 

^O matter how gaily the waves may run, 
-^ No matter how briiiht and dashintr. 
With gleams of spray, in the golden sun, 
Sparkling and shining and tiashing. 

Beneath is ever the sounds of woe : 

The rocks break the heart of the ocean, 

A weary, moaning is always below, 

Where caged, restless waves are in motion. 

And so, in all lives, there arc thrills of pain. 
No matter how bright is the smiling; 

The clouds gather oft, and the. falling rain. 
Invisible hands are be£?uilin<;. 

The bitterest cup to our lips is pressed, 

We drink of the ruefulest measure ; 
We weep, for we would forever be blest. 

And dwell in the courts of pleasure. 

Ah, stranger than fate, are the lives we live! 

The deeps are unknown to the shallows. 
We cry in the darkness, *•* forgive, oh, forgive," 

To the God :ill humanity hallows. 

Oh, the deep sea (jf pain; the dull, weary days! 

The sad imdercurrcnt of sorrow ! 
Dissevered forever from any bright rays 

Or hopes whispered cheat — the to-morrow. 



Beyond. 

^'HE leaves have a sound like autumn, 
- T\\Q clouds bear a chill trace of rain, 
The wind 'neath the eaves is sobbing. 
Like a desolate heart in pain. 



iy6 Work and Rest, 

Close over the hill, dark shadows, 

So stealthily, silently ereep. 
I feel the breath of the frost-kinu;-. 

Coldly up from the north-lands sweep. 

The summer, so dull, is ended ; 

I turn and look baek o'er the way. 
And see heavy mists, with whieh blended 

Are shadows, eold, solemn, and gray. 

My lieart, like the leaf aqui\'er, 
'Bonds 'neath its portion of pain, 

M\y ..soul, like the north wind sobbing, 
Sheds tears, like the autumn rain. 

My life, from her haunts of sadness, 
'N(nv turns toward the gleaming west, 

And finds ealm — even the gladness 

Whieh eomes when tlie wears' have rest. 



W ork and Rest. 

If'jiLrR work is all this side the river, 
^^ And Rest waits on the other shore ; 
Our fane\' sees the palm leaves quiver 
In lands of shade, where toil is o'er. 

So wecuy grow we of eartli's labor. 
So l-.eavy do life's burdens press. 

We jiit}'" every toiling neighbor. 
And at their trials \ainly guess. 

In pain and sadness — often weeping — 
We journe}- toward the blissful plaee, 

Where kindly angels wateh are keeping, 
To wipe the tears from off ( ur faee. 

Our toil will soon be done fc>re\'er ; 

Our tasks will no more press t1u;ir weight, 
When we pass the rolling riv'er 

Washing up to Eden's gate. 



The SlunUnvCil \\\iy . — Is if 7/rne? /// 

The Sliadowccl Way. 

E^ATIIER, forgive past murmurings ! 

Forsfive the sad tears ansfuished flow : 
. . . . ^ 

Fors^ivc the striving task which brinffs 

Onl\- a harvest time of woe. 

What are we tliat we dare ask, 

A respite from one care or pain ? 
Exoneration from one task. 

One eokl k)ok less, or word of blame? 

If daz/ling sunshine be not best, 

Shoukl w^e. in anger, cease to pray r 

We plead not for the sluggard's rest. 

But for grace to walk the shadowed way. 

The shadowed path is best for me : 
Let others ha\e the sunlight clear. 

Author of Love, 1 cast my heart on Thee, 
And walk in shadow, \\ithout feai'. 



Is It Truc:'^ 

4^^M-IEN \-ou hear an e\il whisper. 
W^: Like the frost-wind biting through, 
Stop and think — ^-ou ha\e a sister — 
Ask this question: "is it triu'?"' 

If the e\il heart shall stifle 

All remorse, and crv " the\ saw"' 

Ask with, scorn if 'tis a trifle 
Thus to steal a name awaN. 

Stand upon your manhood's honor ; 

Let the truth fall like the dew ; 
But when foul-tongued slander whispers, 

wSternh' (piestion, 'vis it truer" 



jyS Moniairs Aspi)-aiioii . 

Question — and demand not answer 
Merely — but proof without a flaw ; 

Think of sister, wife, and mother. 
And Jipply this righteous law. 

Impure hearts, like poison marshes, 

Breed miasma in the air; 
Do not listen to their mouthings, 

You have loved ones — so beware. 

There are those who strike, in darkness. 
Blows whieh pieree the pure heart thro'. 

Stop the tongue of black faced scandal 
By demandinji, ''Is it true?" 



Woman's Aspiration. 

DO not ask for pomp or power, 
Nor do I wish for fame ; 
I may go hence at any hour — 
What matters praise or blame? 

But few will know — still fewer care — 
How small or great was I, 

When I am sleeping over there. 
Beneath the changing sky. 

And yet I crave, with earnest heart, 

(While scorning fame and gold) 
A love, of all my life a part. 
Which never shall grow cold. 

A place where I may bide, serene, 

Apart from earthly snares; 
A home, where I may reign as queen. 

Without a monarch's cares. 

These give to me, and you may take 

All other forms of bliss ; 
Give me true love for true love's sake; 

I'll be content with this. 



/;/ jMemory. iji.) 

In Memory 



|Of I,«roy (i. Mills.] 

''He Died at his Pos/r 

|N battle array, on the field of war, 
' ' Charges the eager, maddened host ; 
Then somebody writes to the friends afar 
This message, perhaps: "Died at his post. 

The mother, or wife, 'mid her bitter tears. 
Feels a thrill of pride — ah! fearful cost! 

Though mourning ma^'be, and for man}- years, 
'Tis sweet to know ''he died at his post." 



5? 



When loud, martial music pulses the heart 
With quicker beat, (the day may be lost) 

And the blood, like rain, from the blue \eins start; 
But soldiers never desert their post ! 

In the murky night, with death by his side. 

Old 7^ bore a heart more brave 
Than one who, into the wild battle rides, 

To find, in the tumult, a soldier's grave. 

The hand on the \alve grew nerveless and weak ; 

The dizzy brain felt the hold of death — 
Away o'er the plain, like a cyclone's freak. 

The engine sped ; but the fleeter breath 

Was gone before the sought-for goal was won. , 
Leroy was dead ; and the bo3-s, at most, 

Could only write to the parents — "Your son, 
Leroy, is dead, but died at his post!" 

* -> * * •«• 

Toll the bell softlv ; the mother's sad tears 
Are falling now, and the father's heart 

Will carry a cloud for wearisome years — 
So hard it is for dear ones to part. 



iSo 



Jf/V/Av- 



S(imL'tinics a whistle will sound on the aii". 
And the mother will sjiy : "My bov is dead; 

He stooc| by that enf]^ine over there. 

With the brown eurls blowinLC about his head,""' 

" And sounded lor nie that sharp, shrill note. 
To tell nie good-bye, or, all is well ; 

But now to ni}' cars that sound does float 
Like a solemn dirge, or a funeral knell." 

Me sang, ere he tlied — as a comrade said — 
A li^-mn like a prayer — its words are lost — 

What more can 1 sav? I^eroy is dead. 

And died like a liero — ''Died at his post!" 



Winter. 

/Vj^ IS winter now, wh\' should \"(»u sigh, 
Though roses droop, and lilies die? 
There surely will come, bv and bv. 
Jirighter days antl a fairer sky. 

"T is winter, and oxer the sun 
The clouds are creeping, one by one : 
The air is chill, the birds haye llown 
Off to their distant southern home. 

'T is winter, and the leafless trees 
Ouake and moan in the blighting brec/.e 
. And \()u are sad, and will not see 
\'isions of spring, wliich comfort me. 

Wait with patience, and trust, antl peace. 
These winter daws will surely cease; 
Look how swifth' the dark clouds t1\- ! 
Kternal summci- drawing' niuh. 



I he Tivo (irniuhiioflwrs. jSj 

The Two Ciranclmothcrs. 

I Ili'si.n-Uiilly Insci-ilii'd to ( Irwiidnia l\ iilliin-i- ,iiiil (li iiikIiiim Miilcf.J 

/^^III'^^' sat alont.', in the iirelii^Hit's glow, 
^ And talked of the days of lonir asro — 
()t their dreams and thou«j^hts, the songs the}- sung, 
In the lar off da\s when iheir life was >'oiing. 

And the}- eiiatted on, as the aged will, 
Of those early days ere the winters chill, 
That touched their head with the frost of vears. 
Had left on their cheeks tlie trace of tears'. 

They had loved, and wedded, in earh- life. 
Wearing the crown of mother and wife ; 
(irandmother, too, and the setting sun. 
Shone on a race worthily run. 

And ihey turned their thoughts and their eager e\cs, 
Awa}- toward the gates of Paradise, 
And spoke of the loved ones, gone before. 
Who waited for them on the other shore. 

And their iiearts were tilled with a hoK- awe. 
As if tlieir mortal eves then saw. 
Such xisions pure, as the prophet John, 
Was once permitted to look upon. 

Grandma Millei- was going a\\a\ , 

'JV) the land of the Star and ''Crescent h:i\-/' 

'i'hat semi-tropic, southwest land. 

Near the chill sea-coast, with its bare, white strand. 

They knew not when the}- should meet again. 
Though parting thoughts ga\ e them little pain ; 
For' they said: That ■'only a little wav, 
ks the path that leads to the perfect daV." 

They promised then, wlun either should die. 
The other would come, without tear or sigh. 
And look her last on the dear, dead face. 
With e\-es undimniej b\- the sorrow's trace. 



iS2 Through Pain. 

For were the^- not onl}' going home? 
And were the}- not weary of walking alone? 
And were not their loved ones waiting there, 
In that land of rest, so shining and fair? 

And thus they talked, as the aged will, 
AVhile the moments sped, so stealthily still. 
That the chimes of the hour were scarcely heard, 
And their souls were strangely, holily stirred. 

A silent prayer, and then ""good night,'' 
While 'round them a halo seemed shining bright, 
As if the heavenly gate stood wide. 
Awaiting these souls so purified. 



Through Pain, 



^^HERE is strength of suffering born, 
A courage taught by pain, 
Serene, and grand, and bright it shines. 
Like sunlioht after rain. 



t5 



The}' who have known no suffering, 

Are timid, and afraid, 
Where burning plowshares gleam so bright. 

Their hearts stand still dismayed. 

Not so, the brave, strong, suffering heart, 
Which knows that way of old. 

The stinging pain, the best barbed dart, 
Shakes not its courage, bold. 

When flames leap up, the martyrs sing, 

They die and make no moan ; 
Crowned with the stren2;tb of sufferinii;, 

They proudh' journey home. 



Sepicmhcr. — (rreefiiio-. iSj 

Septemljcr. 

^^EPTEMBER is here, and over the huul, 
J) The tinted leaves sigh softly, and sway 
For a moment, ere to the lonely strand, 
Thev bend their faces, and float away. 

We watch, and we wonder whither they go, 
Floating so still o'er the silent stream ; 

And question if aught in the river's flow 
Hath power to sooth life's fevered dream. 

O, leaves grown sere in the autumn gale, 
You are emblems true of all earthly trust, 

We tremblingly cling — with faces pale — 
'Till destin}' sweeps us into the dust. 

Our hopes are falling, and failing, each day ; 

Our dearly loved go to come no more, 
We are as helplessly weak, in our way. 

As sere leaves fallino- alono' the shore. 



Greeting". 

^jfejAPPY New Year!" To friend and foe, 
\@^ I bid this cheerful greeting' go. 
And send it, with a pray'r, to bless. 
That it ma}- bring some happiness. 

We go our way so much alone, 
Our voices take a frozen tone ; 
We speak the words we do not mean, 
And keep our truest thoughts unseen. 

This is the lesson each must learn, 
(Though honest hearts with sorrow burn.) 
Dissemble with a smilins: face. 
And stab to death w^ith sweetest <rrace. 



2S4 The /(fcs of March. 

The great, wide world ! How fair and grand ' 
What pigmies we, who scorn and hate ; 

To friend and foe, here is m}- hand, 
Forgive me, if 'tis offered late. 

God grant 3011 each a happy 3ear ; 

Ma^^ hope's fruition never fail ; 
May peace and plenty- hover near ; 

Ma}^ seas be calm, and full each sail. 

May ever^' morning dawn with bliss, 
And may the evening sun go down 

In royal splendor. Ma}^ happiness. 

Full, free, and perfect, this 3-ear crown. 



Ml 



llic Ides of March. 

AIL, wild March winds! Cr3' louder 3'et I 



^^' The world hath need of notes of woe ; 
The hearts which pulse with vain regret. 
Join in thv swa3ings to and fro ; 

Join in thy sobbings ; feel th3' pain ; 

Know all the miser3' expressed ; 
Sad tears fall fast — like beating rain, 

On wrinirinLf hands, on burdened breast. 



O. Ides of March I (), Isles of death ! 

Where are the hearts that loved us so? 
Where swept the quickl3' fleeting breath? 

Where did the passing spirit go? 

Alas, more loudly siirhs the ijale ! 

Who can interpret whisperings, 
Heard on the winds alonsj; the vale? 

Who learn the songs the INInrch wind .^ingsr 



Only a Dreaiu. i8^ 

Only a Dream. 

IT was a dream ; and yet to me 

'^ 'T was real, nor fraught with mystery. 

For once again — as oft of yore — 

I stood within the farm-house door — 

The dear old homestead, brown and grim — 

And heard the river's murmuring din, 

And saw the trees, full-freighted, bright 

AVith fragrant blossoms, pink and white. 

And, as I stood in ecstacy, 

There came a friend who questioned me : 

A friend, alas, who long had lain 

Beneath the sod, in sun and rain ; 

He said, "My friend, has life been fair 

And shadowless, as free from care. 

As in those days, when you and I 

Watched shadows o'er the river fly?" 

"Has fate been gentle, kind, to you? 
Have friends been faithful? Lovers true? 
Have foes been honest in their hate? 
Your heart ne'er torn and desolate? 
And have you tried to do 3-our best? 
With patient trust have you been blest?" 
And then there came, o'er sunny lawn, 
A darksome gloom, as when the dawn 

Of stormy morning chills the sk}'. 
And all the blosboms seemed to die. 
The Susquehanna moaned complaint; 
My heart grew cold, my spirit faint, 
For I must answer, knew I well. 
And all life's solemn story tell ; 
Confessions make, for tasks ill done. 
The clouds gri'ew thicker o'er the sum. 



1 86 Only a Dream. 

Then answer made I, low and still 

Without volition, strength or will — 

"O, friend of mine, you cannot know 

Mow earthly trials vex one ; so 

When I tell you all the pain, 

Of years misspent, you'll rise again 

To your bright home, and leave me here 

With heavier anguish, greater fear. 



At best, 1 scarce I}- know the way 
To walk aright, from day to day ; 
My spirit — though with broken wing — 
And chained to earth, essays to sing; 
And sometimes I have clothed the poor. 
And fed the hungry ; 1 am sure 
I never saw a heart's distress 
Unmoved, or, with cold carelessness. 



Have passed the weak and weary by ; 
But tears have wiped from many an eye. 
Yet I have caused some tears to flow. 
Have brought to some hearts direful woe; 
Have wounded those 1 loved the most. 
And those most loved ha\ e often lost ; 
And I have suffered deeper grief 
Than 1 could bring to xour belief." 



And thus I mnrniui'cd on and on. 
Till, glancing up, my friend had gone. 
And 1 was standing there alone. 
Half-frozen, like a granite stone; 
Disgusted at nn- weak attempt 
At self-excuse — my discontent — 
His strong, j-)ure soul had flown away. 
And left me there, with nauirht to sa^•. 



Only a Dn'mu. j8j 



And then 1 wept such blindini; tears, 
As sad hearts weep when crushing years 
Of mingled misery and pain 
Press on them, Hkc wild storms of rain. 
And while I moaned, in deep despair, 
I heard my name ; and glancing, where 
A ray of sunshine flickered through 
The rich green leaves, all wet with dew. 



I saw this motto, written clear. 

And read it with a thrill of fear: 

"A Christian heart, though full of grief. 

Knows where to look for sure relief. 

Knows how to live, know^s how to die. 

In hope of Immortality.'' 

And then I woke, and saw the light 

Shine from the east, clear, calm and bright. 



And knew that far and far awa}-. 

The rippling Susquehanna lay, 

And the great farm house, brow^n and old. 

To strangers, long ago was sold ; 

And the friend I thought was dead 

Was living, and the words he said 

Were only fancies of the brain; 

And vet my heart felt smothered pain : 



And tears were resting on my fjice. 
And life seemed such a weary race, 
I fain would stop, and rest for aye. 
Or till the dawning of that day 
When all the burdens shall be cast. 
And sorrow evermore be past. 
Impatient still, 1 do not deem 
Siofniticant. that fitful dream. 



iS8 A Ghost Story. 



A Ghost Story. 



iNCK \ r.aw a ghost! Tlie midnight 
l>lcndcd glow of moon and starlight- 
A ghost-Hkc glow across the lawn — 
A mingled mist, like dark and dawn. 
Silent sitting, 'midst these shadows — 
Looking out o'er lonely meadows, 
Where two lovers late had stayed, 
TalUing long 'neath maple shade. 



Sitting silent, sadly thinking 

Of the past; there came a sinking 

Of my heart — a dismal fear. 

As when some awful grief is near. 

Looking up, I saw a woman, 

A ghost-like presence, scarcely human — 

And yet, most surel}/ not divine — 

Which placed a clammy hand on mine. 

'*'Stay," it said, in voice like sighing, 
''Stay, and hear, nor think of flying; 
] am naught that you can dread — 
None ni:\i(\ fear a woman dead." 
As I listened, sorely frightened. 
To her words, the dark sky briglUened 
Until I saw, with perfect vision, 
Iler worn face of cold derision. 

All in white, there stood she talking. 
While the very trees seemed stalking 
Alono- the edge of marsh and moat, 
And earth in air seemed all afloat. 
"Come," said she, "a grave I'll show you- 
There it lies, just there below you, 
It is with rag-weed all o'er grown. 
Lift Liie sod, and raise the stone." 



Resignation, jSq 

Her bidding quick to do, 1 hasted, 
While she said: *'A Hfe once wasted 
Ne'er can be redeemed again : 
Naught can still remorseful pain.'' 
Dragging out the coffin slowly, 
From its resting place, so lowly, 
Lifted I the battered lid, 
And saw a broken heart there hid. 

^'That heart was mine," she said ; "though walking- 

'T is but a wraith you now hear talking ; 

Every hope of mine has fled, 

And I am lonely, cold and dead." 

Then I heard — far off, and flying — 

Angels of pity sadly crying. 

Clouds the twilight now had banished ; 

The moon shone out, the ghost had vanished. 




Resignation. 

HAT Thou dost send, of woe or weal, 
I will accept with patient trust ; 
My wounded heart shall not reveal 

The thoughts which bow it to the dust. 

If best for me, dishonored name. 
By foes assailed in every place, 

The burden of a people's blame, 
I'll bear with never failinjr srrace. 

For, ah ! it matters little here — 

Time is so short, my days so few — 

Whether weal or woe is near, 
Whether sun or clouds in view. 

Thou knowest all ; and Thou art judge 
Of all the paths my feet have trod ; 

To Thee I look for all reward, 

Thou art m}' Father and my God, 




igo Tern pled. 

Tempted. 

H ! Curse of poverty ! At youx^ door, 
* May oft be found ii crowd of crimes ; 
Ravenous wolves were there before, 
'Tis thus the manners stain the times. 

Oh, fair was siie ! A ,<2;oddess, carved 
From purest marble, stainless white, 

But she was; threadbare — aye, and starved — 
Standinf]^ there in the ruthless night. 

Standing there, in the saddest grief 

A mortal woman ever felt, 
While, stealing up, like a loathsome thief. 

He crept,' and at her weak feet knelt. 

Knelt, and made this shameful plea, 
"Be mine! be mine! and I'll provide 

Rich silks, and laces rare, for thee" — 
Yet, said he not "be mine own bride." 

She sadly thought of children twain, 

Who cried, "Oh, mamma, give us bread!" 

She thoug^ht of all her efforts, vain. 

And then she thou<rht of loved ones dead. 

Unto her heart the tempter spoke : 

"Why not? wh}^ not? is it not best? 

Yield, for light will be the yoke. 

And you will then have peace and rest." 

He put his arm about her waist ; 

She threw it off, with quick disdain. 
Saying: "Oh, monster, why such haste? 

Why tempt me, in my hour of pain?" 

Then, helped' by spirits blessed, she cried: 
"No, tempter! No, a million times! 

I mind tlie clay I stood a bride, 

Beneath the southern scented limes." 



Fancies. igi 

''I mind the day my husband kissed 

My Hps, and held me to his heart. 
No ! No ! though all the serpents hissed 

That ever rent two souls apart." 

"Now go thy way, for sooner I 

Would starve, than live a life of blame — 

Sooner w^ould hear my children cry 

For bread, than o'er a mother's shame." 

''My dower of holy motherhood. 

For all thy wealth I would not stain. 

Go, monster ! Go, my womanhood 
Is now aroused; you plead in vain." 

He slunk away into the night, 

As slinks the wolf from torch and spear. 

While o'er her life a star gleamed bright. 
And never more came tempter near. 

The star that o'er her pathway shone 

Was brighter, better far, than gold, 
'Twas virtue, like a girdling zone. 

Which broucrht her blessinsfs manifold. 



Fancies. 

I SOMETIMES fancy, when the trees are still, 
* And all the leaves rest, as if sleeping. 
Beyond the summit of a cloud-born hill, 
I see a little, bright face peeping. 

I sometimes fancy, when a joyous bird. 
With laughing note, flies low before me. 

His song may be an angel's word. 

Sent down from where the skies bend o'er me, 

I sometimes fancy, when the night winds come 
To stir the hearts of fragrant roses, 

Their sweetness is the breath of one 
Whose soul the jasper wall incloses. 



jg2 Under the Linden, 



I often fancy, when the eastern skies 

First show a gleam of morning's gladness, 

'T is her bright smile, that from my eyes 
Should chase the last dull cloud of sadness. 

And then I fancy, when the sun goes down 
In flaming grandeur, ere the star of even, 

With beaming face, puts on her brilliant crown. 
Her hand has pushed ajar the gate of heaven. 

Oh, fancies ! pure as breath from Eden, 
The rest ye bring my weary heart 

Is more than all this world has given 

To soothe the pain Death's wounds impart. 




Under the Linden. 

Y love lies under the linden tree. 

Lies and sleeps in the sun and rain, 
And never gives thought or dream to me. 
Suffering so, in a world of pain. 

My love is dead, and I loved him true; 

Yet he died and left me sobbing alone. 
Over his grave I planted a yew. 

And there at his head a cold white stone. 

If my love had loved so well as I, 

Death had not taken him thus from me. 

He loved me, yes, and I saw him die. 
And now he sleeps 'neath the linden tree. 

Love is life, and life is brief ; 

My love is dead, and life to me 
Is only sad days, fraught with grief. 

And tears shed under the linden tree. 



Be Still. — Only a little Coffin. igj 

Be Still. 

^E still! Oh, throbbing heart, and wait 
^ For calm to rest on foaming wave ; 
Life cannot all be desolate, 

Thouirh winds do howl and waters rave. 

Be still ! And look beyond the now. 
And see the light dawn o'er the land ; 

Watch for its gleam on mountain brow ; 
Wait for the voice of God's command. 

Ah yes, I know how weary days. 

And sleepless nights have been your lot : 

I know you long to see sun-rays. 
Where now is only darksome blot. 

I know it well, and yet say: Wait; 

Be still, and let no dismal moan 
Float up to the eternal gate. 

Are you in suffering alone? 

Though tortures rend your nerves, so tense. 

Be still and quiet in your place — 
"Behind a frowning Providence,' 



I") 

? 5 



Your Father, "hides a smiling face. 



Only a Little Coffin. 

[[iiscribed to Mr. and Mrs. Tlioinas Dixon.] 

^NLY a little cofllin ; within it a tiny form; 
^=^ Only a heart quite pulseless, 
Which late was throbbing warm ; 
Only some fond hopes shattered 
In loving parents' breast. 

Only some fresh earth scattered over a babe at rest. 

This world, with its heavy burdens, 

Might crush, with a weight of care. 
The tender heart of your loved one ; 

'T is well he is resting where 
Temptation does not enter, 

To mar the sweet peace there. 



/p^ A Monologue 



'T is sad when our darlings leave us 
For other, fairer lands, 



And the sting of death will grieve us, 

We raise imploring hands, 
And pray for their lives with anguish, 

Which our agony commands. 

Only a still form, resting 

Beneath the daises white, 
A rest forever lasting, without the gloom of night. 

Only a child more given 
To swell the chorus sweet, 

Sung by happy angels, with harmony complete. 



A MonoloQ-ue. 

-[Written on Keudinj; of the Suicide of Mrs. .Ino. Harlow, .Innc 2r>th, f884. | 

^|u#HEN the silence profound of Eternity's night 
^^ Creeps over the dark'ning horizon of life, 
Then visions of sorrow must vanish from sifrht. 
And stilled to a hush will be all earthly strife. 

The enemies then, who have iKited us so. 

Can reach us no more in their slanderous spite, 

Nor bring to our e3'elids one tear-stain of woe, 
Nor tear our heart chords with venomous might. 

It seems, oftentimes, that a rest in the grave 

Were a thing to be wished, as a pearl of great worth ; 

And it seems that some suffering heart must enslave 
The pity of angels, for troubles on earth. 

The failures of life are so many ! Indeed, 

There are few can claim .the perfection of weal ; 

So man}- are striving, so few may succeed, 
There is so much of mirage, so little of real. 

Thus, thinking in sadness, with heart full of tears, 
Who can say: "It is better to suffer on still, 

Than give up the wearisome battle of years. 
And peacefully rest in a grave on the hill." 



yohu and I . igs 

John and I. 

¥E walked to the old bridge — John and I — 
Walked with light steps, quick and free ; 
A glory shone o'er the lambent sky. 

And blossoms nodded from bush and tree. 

We spoke of the world in a cheerful way — 
Of the life we had just begun together — 

We hoped that no storms might darken pur day, 
But that our years would have sunny weather. 

Oh, why does earth mar the dreams of youth? 

Why does Death lurk, all ties to sever? 
Why does a falsehood strangle the truth, 

And friends, true and tender, be sundered forever? 

Ht * * . * * * 

We walked to the old bridge — John and I — 
He with a weak form, low and bent ; 

I with slow step and tear-dimmed eye. 
And a heart all burdened with discontent. 

For there, by the river, the graveyard lay, 
With white stones gleaming cold in the sun; 

And there were our dear ones, dead but a day — 
Children and grand-children, every one. 

"Mary,"' said John, ''what a lonely road 
We've journeyed together, as man and wife ; 

Bearing our troubles — a dismal load — 
Worn by suffering, wearied by strife." 

^'Yet, Mary," said John, in a kinder tone, 
"I do not regret our marriage; do you? 

If much we have suffered, 't was never alone. 

And our love for each other has always been true." 



ig6 As at First. 

''Ah, John," said I, "you were ever dear" — 
And the tears were falUng over m}/ face — 

"Our troubles are ahnost over here, 
And we shall dwell in a better place." 

Then, hand in hand, we sat quite still. 
And turned our eyes to the western sun, 

And thought, while the evening air grew still. 
Of our journey together, now almost done. 

And we thought, though often our path had seemed 
Overshadowed and bleak with gloomy weather, 

Through every cloud a ray had gleamed, 

For all the long way we had walked together. 

As At First. 

IN those early da3-s, when the world was young, 

Wiien joy, and peace, sweetest duo sung, 
And Eden's flowers were as fresh and fair 
As the life God gave to the happy pair 
Who dwelt in the shade, and felt the breeze 
On their faces blow, from the great palm trees : 

Temptation came, and they each partook. 

Then the first formed man — sa3-s the holy book — 

Put all the blame on his loving wife. 

And strove to sneak from the coming strife. 

" The w:)man thou gavest !" "How brave that cry I" 

Laughed the serpent low, as he glided by. 

And so it came to pass, for a3e. 
As then it was, so it is to-day. 
When any evil thing is told, 
Man slinks away, as he did of old. 
And says — the woman thou gavest me 
Is full of dire iniquity. 

And oft they talk, in a lofty way. 

Of woman weak ; and they grandly say. 

Her mind, like her body, is very frail. 

Then of this weakness they each avail. 

And think, when they hear of some great ill, 

The Eve of Eden is plotting still. 



Lines. — Haunted. igj 

Lines. 

ITo Mrs. S. F. B.] 

I THINK of you often, sometimes with tears; 
^ Your life seems so lonely ; and all the years 
Seem bringing you sorrow ; bringing you pain ; 
And every to-morrow shadows, again. 

I think of you often ; wondering when 
All shadow shall vanish. Ah! you will then 
Know freedom of spirit — inheritance sweet — 
A just, honest measure, full and complete. 

Life should give sunshine to such as you, 
Faithful to friends — always tender and true. 
Life should bring blessings, not srrrow's tears. 
And you should be happy throughout the years. 

If wishes brought gladness, you should be glad. 
If wishes cured troubles, ne'er should be sad; 
Alas ! I can give 30U only the best 
W/s/ies, (with love) ! May you be blest. 



W 



Haunted. 

AITING for something — we know not what; 
Watching for moments which never are here- 
For messages sweet, by grim Time forgot, 
For faces and footsteps unknown, 3'et dear. 

Watching and waiting with anxious eyes 
For friends we never on earth shall see, 

Who sometime may come in spirit guise. 
When death has taken us over the sea. 

Eagerly watching, through sun and rain. 
For something we never can understand; 

Always looking, and ever in vain. 

For the tender touch of some vanished hand. 



igS Pennsylvania. 

Our eves arc dim witli endless woe ; 

Our faces chilled by dull despair; 
Watching and waiting for footsteps slow, 

Which never were known to be anywhere. 

Haunted b}' vague, intangible things; 

Striving to pierce the mystic veil ; 
Listening for songs some angel sings. 

And hearing <»nly tht' world's sad wail. 

Haunted by something we never can see, 
Lonirinix for someone we never can find — 

Is this the spirit's strange mystery.^ w,v ;>,',^ijj 

The crying, in darkness, of souls that are blind? 



Pennsylvania. 

Kx\R native land, thy ri\ers run 

From pine-clad mountains to the sea ; 
Thy valleys smile in heaven's sun, 
Fruit-laden, like an apple tree. 

]^^ve are thy hills, dear nali\e land ; 

Warm are the hearts thy children bear; 
Cool are thy dells, thy mountains grand. 

And bright the emerald cnown they wear. 

We send thee greeting from the West, 
Thy children here, so far from home; 

Of all the world, we love thee best. 

And irrieve for thee wheie e'er we roam. 

We drink to thee, of waters clear. 

As that which bubbles from thy rills ; 

We toast thee with an earnest cheer 

As e'er was heard 'midst thine own hills. 

We pledge each other, friend and friend, 
Pjorn on thy soil, though far we rove; 

We pledge each other, as we send 
Kind greetings to the land we love. 



C.ofitrast. 

Between us and our childhood friends 
Large rivers roll, huge prairies spread, 

Yet soul sends greeting unto soul 

With earnest heart and reverent head. 



'99 



"> 



Contrast. 

I THINK of you, always, as one 
Who dwells in a radiant li<J:ht ; 
You there, 'neath the clear summer sun ; 
I here, 'midst the shadow of night. - 

Flowers spring up where \ou tread ; 
Thorns gather thick in \wy way ; 
Roses droop sweet o'er 3'our head ; 
While rue is my portion to-day. 

You reach me your hand, it is true. 
And would help me — alas! if you could — 
I shrink and hide, even from you, 
Wiio always were noble and good. 

Yes, hide, with my heart full of pain 

'Neath the clouds which have darkened my^way, 

I watch — yet forever in vain — 

For a rift, where shall gleam a bright rav. 

1 never, ah, never shall know. 
How much, or little you care; 
You dwell in a roseate glow 
Of happiness, 1 may not share. 

Nor do I desire this to be; 
My heart is to friendship more true. 
The sand of the desert for me — 
The blossoms of Fden for you. 



200 Ad Finem. 

Ad Finem. 

j©)ORN in sadness, and baptised with tears ; 

<§) Freighted with burdens, and oppressed by fears; 

Emblems of all on earth that grieves, 

Are these — my treasures — my poor Myrtle Leaves. 

Why did I write them? Ah ! I could not say, 
They came as tears cjme, when we kneel to pray; 
They came as visions of a past, long dead. 
Or ghosts of anguish, when our 3-outh has fled. 

Why do I publish? Friend, I this but know. 
These "Myrtle Leaves," thc}' clogged my footsteps so. 
And seemed to clamor, with a pleading look, 
"Oh gather and save us! Bind us in a book." 

You say these leaves have never borne one bloom; 
You say for books th:re scarce is any room. 
Why did I write them? Ah! 1 could not say — 
They came as rain comes when the clouds are gray. 



\